The Harbor

The harbor has always felt safe. Rope against wood, the steady knock of mast and chain, the lull of water holding me close. For years, I've lingered here, collecting relics like barnacles, clinging to memories, pretending the dock could keep me tied to the past forever.

But every love letter I write is another mooring line cut. Each post, another knot slipped loose. I tell myself they're tributes, that I'm honoring the things I've loved, but really, they're all small releases, one rope at a time.

The boat shifts and drifts an inch, and then another. It's so far from the dock now, you could scarcely reach it with a leap of faith. The harbor won't hold me forever.

One day there will be no lines left, no ropes to tighten, no excuse to stay tethered. When that day comes, I'll slip into the open water toward whatever waits beyond this quiet shore.

It's a sad realization, but also an honest one. The act of remembering is also the act of letting go. My letters were never anchors. They're the very tools by which I free myself.

This has been a love letter to a forgotten thing.

And maybe every piece I write is both a keepsake and a farewell. Its gift was never permanence, but rest—a place to gather my strength before the tide calls me out again.