"More than a stunning debut. It is the announcement of a bold new literary voice"
—Stephen Chbosky, author of The Perks of Being a Wallflower

She’s still sad. I can tell. We all can. It’s obvious, plain as day, evident in her movements… Her voice soft and drowsy. When I talk to her on the phone she mumbles and I have to repeat myself. She seems distant, off in another universe.
You brought stability. Kept her safe for almost fifty years. Yes, there were problems but you loved each other.
Sometimes, when things are going wrong, I ask you for help. I don’t know why. It’s usually when I’m between wake and sleep and you’re the only one I know to talk to.
Even though you’re gone and I will always see this, clear as a summer day, your skin turning yellow. Eyes glassy. It’s your daughters birthday, she’s my mom, she’s here. I am too. You can barely talk. Can’t even say happy birthday.
Giving you a hug, writing a letter, furiously, hunched over your office desk in that closet with the green carpet and shelves and shelves of books. Dad reading it to you when you woke, crying.
On a plane, away. Get a call. Back. Black shirt. I love you. Becoming one with one’s we saw maybe twice a year. Bringing us together. Allie’s poem. That interview years later for my sociology class when I asked about you and she smiled and talked… how nobody can fill that gasping space because your glasses and marred skin and beautiful mind kept us all sane.
I use to count the days. One month, six, a year… I lost count but I still remember on that June day. How it felt.
So now you’re talking to Daniel and all those people I tell you to say hi to. I hope you’re still learning, telling stories, remembering the important moments. Our history. Card games. Monopoly. Falling asleep on the couch. First real loss. First real funeral. First real time slow motion moment when my heart started to crack on the kitchen floor and I cried and so did M and so did G. Crouched together. Still together now now now.