***
Shiloh, I have sad news about the shortbread you sent. The package looked like it got mauled by a thresher. I had to throw out the cookies.
But Junie’s drawing survived—please thank her for me. I’m pretty sure that’s all of us at McDonald’s, including my mom, right? I laughed out loud at the oxygen tank.
And I salvaged the photos, even though they were battered. Your dining room looks great. I like how you painted the chairs green.
Thanks for the picture of Mikey with Otis—babies change so fast, it freaks me out.
There were no photos of you, so I have to assume that you continue not to age a single day.
Thatismy ship. I could also send you patches, T-shirts, baseball caps and coffee cups. (I just thought of something else to send you. I won’t spoil it.)
You said you want to know how I’m feeling...
I felt like my dog died when I saw that your cookies were ruined. I’ve never had someone sending me care packages this consistently, and I’ve appreciated it more than I can say.
I thought I was beyond caring about something like that; I’ve spent so much time at sea. But I’m not. Thank you.
We have about a month left out here, and everyone is itching to get home. We have to work not to be lax or get distracted. I have to work on it myself—and I have to watch for it in everyone else.
You’re right, the shipissmall. Three hundred people. This is the smallest ship I’ve served on so far. I wasn’t looking forward to that aspect of it—but the assignment was good for my career. A step forward.
Living on a destroyer is like living in a small town compared to the big city of a carrier. You get to know each other better, faster. There’s nowhere to hide. It’s easier to spot weak links, but then it’s also easier to notice when people shine.
I was worried about the job being too big for me to manage. It’s a lot of oversight and supervision. Synthesizing information. Directing communication.
(Does that mean anything to you? I’m trying not to use jargon.)
In the past, I was the assisting officer. But now it’s just me.
As it’s turned out, it’s been fine. I’m trained to do the work, and I do it.
So I’m feeling relieved.
Don’t send any more packages. There’s a chance they won’t get to me before our deployment ends.
I hope you’re well, Shiloh.
***
Drat!!!!
I guess our luck couldn’t hold with the packages. There were two kinds of shortbread, lemon and cardamom. And I’m sorry to tell you they were bothsplendid.
It makes me really sad to know that you haven’t been getting carepackages—though I can see that it wouldn’t be your mom’s strong suit. You probably sendhercare packages.
(Didn’t you say you were engaged for a while? Was she not a mail person?)
I can’t help but feel like it should have been me sending you care packages all along.
Now that we’re talking again, I feel sick with regret over letting our friendship die.
It feels like such awaste.
Like—I get it. I GET IT. I know why it happened. I lived through it! I am at fault! But it just feels like aspectacularwaste—to have had your friendship and lost it—especially now that I remember what it feels like to have you in my life.
The next time I send you something nice, give it to the 20-year-old version of yourself, and tell him I’m sorry I was such a dick.
