May 16, 1946

Dear sister,

I know that you are not much interested in talking to me and that you never were. I rarely demand or expect anything from another, as I don't care enough to do so most of the time, but I will make an exception now: please read this letter to the end. I have a lot to tell you and will likely never get any other chance. That's why I'm stressing it: please hear what I have to say. Do not immediately toss this piece of paper into a trash can or fold it and put it away: read it.

We'll be departing for Bikini in five days. I say "we", because New York, Nevada and Pennsylvania are also coming. We're going to die, most likely. It is what it is. But you, hopefully, will live on for a few more years. When I'll be gone, you will be the oldest battleship still afloat, even if a training ship now, how impressive is this? I just hope that those last years will be comfortable for you, and that you will not suffer in any way. I may or may not suffer when the bombs will be blasted above and beyond me. I am just grateful that you are saved this fate. I don't say a word to the others about it, but I'm terrified about it deep down. I don't know whether it's going to be a long drawn-out demise or a quick one that I won't notice. I usually like surprises, but this one, I'm not so eager to find out what it's going to be like.

I had many pains in my life, and things have been escalating ever since that fateful December morning that threw all of us into this mess. Being aware of the many, more than I could ever imagine, dying as a result of my guns pounding coasts and islands. Knowing that I was, by design, a killing machine, and that I had no other choice but to be one, because my vessel was made for this, and that my crew were doing their duty by manning these cannons, obliterating many of their own kind in the process. It's a blessing you never had to go through this beyond Veracruz, Wyoming. It's no secret many of these suffer from that "shell-shock" thing, or however it's called. Even us warships are not left unharmed. Not even the ones who have been warships for life after life.

The great Warspite, a splendid British battleship that we had the honour to meet and fight with in Europe, told me that it never gets easier, and she said herself to have been a warship seven times already. I believe her. If it gets easier, then you know you are too far gone, and that you have fallen into the deep.

That West Virginia girl who narrowly escaped death at Pearl Harbor returned with a rebuilt vessel, but devoid of any emotion, remorse, or fear. Horrible pain would barely make her budge, too. Her presence made my blood run cold and was just as frightening even to her own sisters, who, in the past, would find any excuse for her already unpleasant behaviour. I know that this was likely due to brain damage she sustained, as she really came close to dying, but she was there, right in the deep I'm talking about. It got easy for her, and she earned many battle stars, but at this price. A terrible price to pay.

Taking care of Texas, my all-around best friend for more than thirty years, the one I lived more things with than with anybody else, that I consider to be my adopted sister, being in the worst possible state of despair after learning that the love of her life took such a beating by these planes in Hawaii that it was a surprise she even survived. Making sure she would not jump at Nevada's throat when we were in North Africa, then in Europe, because her hatred for her was cranked up a notch and she would have definitely killed her given the chance. And still, no matter how much I tried to defuse the tension and played buffers, it happened shortly before our big operation in France and I was the one to break them up. I slapped Texas across the face to bring her back to her senses. I hated doing that. I hugged her immediately, I cried, I apologized. We cried together. It was one of the worst moments in my life.

Finding Oklahoma, this sweet and resilient soul, the one who always knew how to cheer me up with her best cup of cocoa, laying on a hospital bed, her vessel stripped down and left abandoned in a dry dock, alive and breathing, but for the most part... nobody's home. It fucked me up so badly that I have never been able to go back and see her more than twice, even knowing she will likely not live much longer than us, and I feel like a terrible person for that. She is like yet another sister to me, in a sense, but what kind of sister am I to her?

Knowing that New York, one of my best friends, the most beautiful ship in this fleet, the gentlest soul to ever serve in this Navy, a part of my family, definitely had something for me, yet knowing that despite having to admit to myself that I feel something as well, I cannot bring myself to reciprocate any gesture, nor give her what she deserves. I'm incapable of telling her how I feel. I'm incapable of telling her that I know. We're going to die and I am being an incapable piece of shit, and will probably continue until the end. She deserves better than me. It's painful to think about.

But the worst pain of all is not any of these, as odd as you might think it is. The worst, sister, was your indifference.

It seeped through everything like water in a corroded hull. It was silent, discreete [sic], but it was ubiquitous, and no amount of numbing it out or pretending it wasn't there could ever make it go away. This flat tone of voice, those eyes that would hardly look at me, the one-word responses, the "yeah, whatever", all of these were a thousand of paper cuts. It would ease up when I was away from you, as I could pretend I was the only one in my class, but the truth is, there is no Arkansas class. There is a Wyoming class, of which we both are the sole representatives, but you seemed just as eager to pretend there was no other ship.

This is the one thing I want to tell you: that I was in pain the whole time, and that I love you still. It's not something I voice, it's something I'd rather not face, but as my end seems to be getting closer, it seems that I have no other choice but to look the beast in the eyes. I did find a family in Texas, New York, and Oklahoma, and I love them more than anything else in the world, but the space that you should have filled remained empty the whole time. No one else would have fit into it.

Without realizing it, I think I waited for you my whole life. You were the only missing piece, the one that would have made the whole thing complete. It doesn't matter that we would have been regularly separated: all that I wanted was my sister.

There is nothing more left to say for me, Wyoming. I just hope that you did make it to the end of this letter, as I asked you to, and that you know that this whole time, I did love you, and that this will never end. You were my sister, the only real one I had at that. I doubt it's possible not to love one's sister-ship in some way or another, especially for us battleships who typically have only one.

I don't mean this to assume how you were feeling about me, but this is just how I've come to see things. My first love was unrequited, and it may very well have made me incapable of reciprocating to those who did love me. But this is too much to unpack before I die anyway. There's no time left to do that. It's too late. Way too late.

Anyway. I think it's time to bid you farewell. Thank you for having taken the time to read all the way through. I am very grateful that you did, at least, do this for me. Whether I survive or not, this is going to be my last letter anyway. I will not pester you anymore.

See you around, USS Wyoming, hull number 32, Chesapeake Raider. May your twilight years be beautiful and filled with the wonders of simple things, like the smell of the sea, the laughter of someone you like, or just the sun caressing the top of your head.

Arkansas