"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

Sweetheart, what can I say? I loved you. I still would, but you left. You died. What you left behind…I’m sorry. I’m sorry that you turned out this way. You were the best part of my life. I am sorry for everything I put you through. I am sorry for the OCD. I am sorry for leaving you behind. Depression didn’t kill me successfully. But it killed you. 7th grade, you were already gone, but you left behind some part of you. 7th grade, 8th grade, Prozac, 9th grade. They took you from me. They stole you. I can’t even turn to Pony Pony anymore, you know? You always turned to her. But she is too small for my grief. She can’t hold it. She is broken too. I am looking into your face. You were happy, joyful even. You weren’t a brat. You weren’t messed up. You were the good child. The smart child. The best child. You cared. You knew what you were doing most of the time. You were even beautiful. I miss you. Every single day. I think of you. Of what I would give to go back to you. To be you again. To play and move every few years and not really want to grow up. But you were practical. You knew that you would. So you planned. I’m sorry. You aren’t going to the Air Force Academy to be a pediatrician. You did get to dance though. I got you pointe shoes. I knew how much you wanted them. You liked blue. I remember the very day that you decided that your favorite color was blue instead of pink. I remember how you ended quiet time in Korea. I remember how you played the way you always wanted to, with reckless abandon in Germany at Donnelly Park. I remember you imagining your past. You loved your memories even then. You concocted your own games that you loved. Come to think of it, you were imperfect. Your mind. You couldn’t go on any field trips until 4th grade because of your stress. You would get physically ill. I love you. What happened? You used to love being afraid of thunder storms. You had your best friends, your stuffies and dolls. Your friends fluctuated as you moved around. You were always a dancer. I hope that you get into heaven, because, darling girl, you deserve it. Maybe not me. But you. You were an angel. You were meant for great things. Where did you go? How did I go wrong? I hope that you become something. I remember your recurring dreams. The thoughts that would plague you in your different self-made dreams. I remember 3rd grade. I remember how you would control part of your dreams and you would always be lost and love your dreams. Then you would wake up and run off into the sun. Because you were golden, and nothing gold can stay.