"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

I remember being little, yet I can’t remember you. I can remember the first time I tied my own shoelaces, the first time I went to an amusement park, the first time I did anything. But I don’t remember you. I was two when you died, and sometimes that’s hard because everyone else who misses you got to know you and love you, but I didn’t. I love you in a way that’s different than everyone else. I love you for all those times you tucked me in at night, for all those times you played with me, for being the model big sister that every little girl wants to have growing up. But I had you for two years, and then you were gone. Death is weird like that. One minute, everything is going great and then you get a huge punch in the gut from reality reminding you that nothing lasts forever and nothing ever stays. Nothing is forever. Sometimes I think about death and what happens after we die. I like to think that there is a better place we move onto from here, where it is always sunny and people have smiles on their faces. Sometimes I think we just cease to exist; a candle blown out, no longer shining its light on the world. But then I think about people like you and I know in my heart that nothing could ever diminish the light and hope that came from inside you. No one could ever just take that away. You’re still here. I feel you everywhere I go, and I know you are watching me from somewhere up in that lovely kingdom of clouds, waiting for the day when I run into your arms. That is when I know everything will be okay again.