In American Lit we have to write a letter to someone about something we carry. For me, one thing I carry is you. I carry the memories and everything else about you. Your curly black hair, smooth tan skin, and a smile that spread across your face like wild fire. It was so contagious and made everything seem better. I carry the thought of your death I carry the pain of not having you here, not having you around anymore.
December 23rd was my 18th birthday. I don't know what I feel now, because I am very happy, I am 18 now. But in fact, I don't want to become 18, I don't want to grow up. But now, this is a fact.
