Dear Miraby,
when i was younger, you were always there. Every Fourth of July, i would walk through the deer proof gate, and you'd be there. i'd go up to your door, and knock, timidly. You would show up smiling and greet me. Maybe we'd go sit on your hammock and watch the patterns that the sun made as it filtered through the trees onto our legs. We'd talk as we weaved our way through squash and strawberry patches. Later on in the day,we'd walk along the bay, flinching as the harp rocks cut at the soles of our feet. We'd swim out in the salty water, laughing at our brothers as they horsed around in the water. Barbara was always there, regaly floating on a tupe, smiling quickly if we looked over.
Riding our bikes through the bumpy path, we'd sit, our backs straight. Your hair would flow elegantly in the wind. Mine wouldn't, it was too short.
On that same bay, we would sit, bundled up, watching the fireworks go off from the pier across the water.
And now you're dead.
Some old lady ran you over with her car on the same road we used to meet on. She had such potential, Mom says. People always say that when someone dies.
Everyone was telling me to write, to let it all out.
But, at the time, i couldn't form a single sentence.
Nothing.
So this is my healing letter, my memorial of you.
Love,
Marianna