"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

Dear July:
I suppose you’ll like this pseudonym, since in my vague memories you’ve always wanted one. (you ditched me for haven/hell/space/limbo, so I’d say I get to pick) Well, long story short, I’m writing this letter to apologize for all the things I missed (including your funeral) and all the other things that could have been in some alternative universe where you’re alive and well. You left our family when we were all very young and confused. I don’t think we dealt with it very well—no one really speaks of you much anymore. It seemed you have faded from our memories altogether, washed away into some abyss out of harms reach. I am surprised how much I’ve forgotten already. I remember your obsession with Legos and South Park and how you owned an orange jacket that looked exactly like Kenny’s. It’s funny how your face faded along with the horrid plastic crabs you got me for my birthday with that reference I still don’t get (was that supposed to be an inside joke?) and the badly folded origami cards. I don’t remember what you look like, at least the specific details, anymore. This book reminded me of you. Your long expeditions along the beach to search for clams you’ll fry up before dinner. How you never snapped out of the tomboy trance and didn’t own a skirt, and how others often mistaken you as a brother instead of a sister. Though I never grieved so deeply like Laurel did for May–I think I was too young to truly understand that you’re dead—I still miss you every day, in a sense that you missed a good friend who went away on a long vacation. Sometimes I’m glad that I never went to your funeral. I never saw the cremation or the flowers or the weeping relatives. In my young mind I always pictured you away, like Amelia Earhart, away on some faraway island with picture perfect palm trees and azure waters where you still looked for your clams, where it was always sunny and the beach was free of tourists. Sometimes I saw you with Amelia Earhart–you would be starting and fire, still wearing your Kenny jacket and she would be fixing her plane ready to soar. I keep trying to convince those that also forgotten that you owned a jacket like Kenny, but no one remembers.
I still do picture you like that, on a vacation, even now. It’s nice to keep it that way.
I’m glad you remembered to take your jacket.