He looked down at the picture in his hand, as he did every night. It was the only one he had when she died, and he didn't go looking for a different one. Once, in a fit of anger directed only at himself, Tony had cut the picture up, cropping out the images of Kate's wet body and the people around her. He thought that leaving a dead woman's picture like that was disrespectful.
Sighing, he held the picture over the trash can. I have to let go of this at some point, he thought to himself. He tried bringing himself to let go, to drop the picture into the garbage and be through with it. It's been twenty-six years.
As he always did, Tony put the picture back into his nightstand and left the deed for another night. He feared he never would be able to throw out the picture—the only lasting memory he had of the woman he truly loved. He sighed and rolled over into the bed, next to Ziva. He was sure she was dreaming of some event their fourteen-year-old daughter had going on. He managed to find company with Ziva, but she never would replace Kate, or the feeling Tony had and still has whenever he thinks of her. Just like getting rid of the picture, removing Kate from memory was a task deemed impossible. It wasn't ever going to be easy.