May 29

The first day of summer was always our day.

   We'd hit the beach, party all night long at the boardwalk.

   We'd crash in my living room in a heap of blankets and pillows, eat all the ice cream we could handle.

   We'd talk for hours about nothing and everything, laugh until we couldn't breathe.

For the first time in eight years, I'm spending it without you.

I went to the boardwalk alone, sat in our cart on the ferris wheel and tried to smile when it reached the top. I didn't have it in me to cheer, not without you.

   I picked up a tub of cookie dough ice cream from the store, and had to stop myself from grabbing mint chocolate for you.

I built the fort, too, even though it took twice as long to do with only one person.

   I set out the snacks, put in Pitch Perfect, and sprawled out on my side. I didn't have to worry about kicking you or knocking over your hot chocolate.

Copper poked his head in looking for you, but your side was empty, and it was like it upset him, too.

   Mom asked where you were when the credits rolled and only half the snacks were eaten. I didn't have the heart to tell her you weren't coming.

But the sympathetic yet pained smile that crossed her face said she already knew you were gone.