Digital Bonus Content

Northern Lights

Northern skies carry the purest of light
Forged by callow spirits wearing a dream
Glistening eternal, fighting the night

A tapestry of glee, in boundless flight
They twirl, twist, and dance in the astral stream
Northern skies carry the purest of light

They harness the wind, like stirs of a kite
Fresh scarlet souls willed a chance to redeem
Glistening eternal, fighting the night

Each flicker tells a tale of raw delight
Awe-inducing wavelengths, unique they seem
Northern skies carry the purest of light

This aurora preserves past lives so bright
Taken too soon, children shimmer and gleam
Glistening eternal, fighting the night

So next time you gaze upon those great heights
Recognize those who have given supreme
Northern skis carry the purest of light

—© 2025 by Owen Fezatte

Horse Fence

—© 2025 by Erin Karsten

The Sun Will Rise

the sun will rise
whether you wake up
at 4 a.m.
to see it
or not

the sun will rise
and it is beautiful

because someone
arose at 4 a.m.
just to see
it

and the sun rises
to show them
that
it will.

—© 2025 by Courtney Fitzgerald

Body Image

Here I am the young voluptuous formal model with the thin waist.
Here I am the middle-aged women with the ever-expanding waist.
Here I am the crippling aging adult with the crepe skin.
Here I am.
I am all of these.
I need you to love me for the young beautiful woman I was.
I need you to love me for the heavyset woman I am now.
I need you to love me for the gray wrinkled lady I will become.
See me.
See all of me.
Not just one.

—© 2025 by Teresa L. Harvey

Untitled Photo: Verity M. Langan

—© 2025 by Verity M. Langan

Someday

Today, the thing that wasn’t supposed to happen did: Someday has come.” – Walt Sandberg 

Nail me together, flimsy as it is. 
It just came to me unware to enervation 
that the pieces will stay together with 
bent-back screws used twice over.  

What should I do first? 
This question is my dilemma. 
I should know how it is.  

I don’t wanna get around to anything 
although I realize the Someday has finally come. 
still, that kinda thinking makes me uneasy.  

You could knock me down with a feather,
rebuild me better. You don’t need nothin’. 
Someone’s been meaning to fix me, b 

but if you’ll do it for me, what better time 
than this Someday, one of many one-day’s. 
We’ve been here before, why not again?

—© 2025 by Samantha Marie Landvick

Heat Death 
(People Like Us, We're Doomed from the Start)

And when the flames lick at your skin
the warmth will feel like relief
once the pain is seared away.
Curls of light slide along your limbs.
You were never going to get out of this one.
This is what it means to die, to meet God—
“You know I love you, right?”
Say it all soft, like we’re not drowning, like
you’re still someone who is capable of walking out the door and
taking everything you are with you when you go.
No, the pieces are still behind you,
strewn about like brains against a wall.
Your lungs black bags of crackling bronchi,
deep-fried alveoli.
Here’s the bottom line—
maybe it’s happening for real now, but
you have been burning since the day you were born.
Winds pick up and there you are in all your righteous fury,
all your oxygen-sucking shame.
As your nerves shrivel into themselves like your courage did years ago,
quiet truths circle the drain of your head:
There is peace in this.
There is peace in all of it.

—© 2025 by A.D. Powers

Captain

I am in the water again,
Lashing,
Raging,
Hurling through the torrent—
The tide always seems to work against me,
Raking me against the coral,
Tearing me raw,
Dragging me away from my ship
That stops for nothing.

In time,
Oh mercy mine,
I will make it back to my ship,
Claw my way onboard,
Find footholds in the barnacles
Till I can slither my waterlogged frame
Into the perilous safety of the deck,
Half-drowned, half-frozen,
Spewing back the saltwater

Maybe,
This time,
I can make it to the helm,
Steer myself into calmer waters
(Stanza cont.)
Even for a moment,
Before I am swept from the wheel again.

—© 2025 by Vanessa Stalvey

In Defense of Shadows

We scourge the shadows
And praise the light,
Yet we always seek the shade,
In the heat of the day we hide;
       Embrace our artistic enemy

The pain you hold personified,
The dark haunts and claws and creeps,
But who is the figure it silhouettes?
Who are you to call yourself your enemy?
       Do not call yourself an enemy.

But this perception of absence,
In nothing far set of unique;
Either fear that darkness always follows you,
Or smile, because it always follows you;
       Highlight your (im)perfections

—© 2025 by Vanessa Stalvey

Corroded Façade

My life feels like
this under-prepared façade.

The lies get tangled,
clinging together
like a web of necklace chains. 

The words stumble over one another
in their haste to prove themselves. 

Pictures take on warped features
as the truth in reflected back
through a carnival mirror. 

Situations start to divorce from the scenery
and simulate a split family of stories. 

Conversations continue through chaos
as words work their way out
to contradict the previous statements. 

White lies tarnish and blacken
when washed, rinsed, and repeated.

My tarnished, distorted chains
will end up being the noose
around my neck.

—© 2025 by Sydney Tackes

the "perfect" girl

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—© 2025 by Keileigh Doll

The Book of Stars

“My mother used to read to me. I remember the countless nights I would coward under my Winnie The Pooh bed sheets with the dark of the night peering in through my windows. Those nights I feared the monster beneath my bed would reach out its claws and pull me under to some bogeyland. Typically, I would make a single peeping noise, and my mother would run in, flick on the light, and smile knowing I was safe. Her face was brighter than the fluorescent bulb above me.

“Not a moment would pass before she plugged in my nightlight. It cast a blue shade around my Mickey Mouse painted walls. Then, she would turn off the lights, creep towards a bookshelf against my wall, and pull out the same old book. Shaped differently than the rest.

“It was wider than tall. The sides of the pages had this golden film on them. The cover would seemingly squish in her hands as if it were padded. The moment she sat beside my bed; the monsters were gone. All scared off by that magic tome of a book.

“She would ask what story she should read, cracking open the spine. Of course, I always told her the same one. It was some old fairy tale that I had heard a thousand times over. Then, only with a smile, she'd turn page after page with her hand, catching the sticker of a bookmark with her ringed finger. She would reposition the book in her hands, and I could see the cover in full.
“It was a blue book, this very book. The animals parading on the front, the title of Bedtime Stories and the starry sky of a border around it,” I finally sighed. Pressing into the book’s cover. Now knowing that it was, in fact, cushioned.

“Grandma can’t read?” The little girl before me spoke, cuddled up with a stuffed horse.

“No, no… she can. It… Grandma has a hard time remembering things.”

“Oh.”

“She would read this story nightly, and in those moments, I swear the book came to life. The animals walked off the pages and around my room. The tricky foxes would pace the floor, boasting about their achievement. I loved when she would read, and if she could…” I took a moment to breathe. “She would have loved to read it to you I bet.”

The girl said nothing.

“Can I ask why you chose this for me to read, dear?” I asked.

“It looked pretty.”

Her response nearly made me chuckle, “Alright, then I shall pick one for tonight then.”

She closed her eyes, “I’m ready.”

I turned open the first page, the spine sounding as if it was breaking again for the first time. The title stared at me from the opening page. I moved my fingers around the gold-filmed pages and caught each bookmark. There were tabs in the book that opened to each story—something I was grateful Mother had added.

“Mom?” my daughter asked, eyes looking back at me. “Are you going to start?”

“Yes, sorry,” I turned away from the page, as a glint of blue ink looked back at me. The first page was a note, all in mother’s handwriting. It was small, but written legibly, “When you open the book, introduce the world. Chloe loves it that way.”

“Mom?”

“Sorry, Willow… I will begin,” I cleared my throat, flipping to my favorite tale. It was tabbed with an orange sticker, but the page itself also had a note in blue ink. “Chloe’s favorite. Make sure to reference fairies, even though they are not in the piece.” I blinked, staring at it. It was still Mother’s handwriting. I thought for a moment about how to start, my daughter looking back at me.

“Once upon a time…” I began, questioning what I was reading. Looking at the story I have heard a thousand times, the words didn’t match. The story I was told was about dragons and fairies, runaway princesses, and swordplay. This was simply about a cat in boots. 

“Is everything alright, Mom?”

“Yes, yes dear,” I flipped the page, but only discovered more notes in the same colored ink: “The dragon is red, and the princess was going to save her prince” or “Remember, if your little girl is to grow strong, our princess must survive.” The underlined word confused me, but looking back at my own daughter, it was clear. I continued to flick through the pages, lost in the words I was reading. 

“In a land that still exists to this day, called Roseara,” I remembered the land mother had called it. “There lived a young princess…” I was already struggling with what to say. The story wasn’t given to me. It was all original. I looked at the small pink horse in my daughter’s hands. “She rode on the back of a majestic steed, with a pink mane that was braided into the most regal of ponytails.”

Willow's eyes lit up and in that moment… I had to wonder if mine had when I was younger. That spark of joy and wonder that words alone could capture. The nightlight behind me lit her face with the most adorable smile. When Mother talked about fairies, was I nearly as enthralled? Where the stars from the book shot off and glistened in my eyes?

“She rode her horse across the land of Roseara, galloping through meadows of magic, and down across rushing rivers. All in the chase of a young prince—”

“Yuck!” Willow gagged, pulling her horse to her chest.

“You’re supposed to be trying to sleep, dear…”

“But boys are disgusting!” 

I giggled, “That they are, but it is part of the story.”

“Fine.”

“Her steed, Gumdrop was the strongest of all the horses of the king’s men. Gumdrop outraced them in speed and was more beautiful than even a black beauty. When the princess was on her, however, it was a different tale. She rode proudly, not afraid of ruining her clothes, simply feeling the splashes in the waters and gusts of wind in the horizon sky. Off into the mountains of—” I was about to forget the mountainside and flipped the page once more. Then written in blue was its name, “T-Everest Mountain. Our princess and her steed scaled the cliffside, all in search of their prince. An oracle had stated that he was on the Isle of Forgotten and that the Princess herself must save him. She was certain this could be achieved, but as the sun began to set, she realized how difficult this journey had become.

“She climbed off her horse, and after years of journeys realized the life that she had lived. She had previously fought dragons, made friends with fairies, and heard the folktales of the adventures she had all experienced. She fought hard to be with her prince for as long as she could remember. Now he’s gone again, and the princess may forget him one day… but she could not. She needed to save him—she needed to continue to remember—” I looked up from the book, realizing how entranced I got into reading it. Willow, on the other hand, was fast asleep.

I gently closed the book, placing it on my chair as I stood. With a step towards her bed, I leaned over and planted a kiss on her forehead, “I love you my darling,” I whispered. “I’ll have to pick it up a different night.”

I looked around the room. The night light was plugged in, with a light blue glow around the room. The walls were pink and painted with Minnie Mouse. The room was silent, but I still looked once more under the bed and in the closet. No monsters. As I neared the door, I found myself glaring at the book, as if it were calling to me.

I leaned over and grabbed it, envisioning the animals walking along the cover as I stepped out of Willow’s room. I turned the book back open as I made my way to my bedroom. I stepped past the pictures of my late husband and entered my room before sitting on the edge of my bed.

All of Mother’s notes stared me back in the face. I read each one over, even the other nonsensical ones about names and locations. Our story beats about our magic of the world. Each reminded me of all the tales she must have spun… and why she stopped.

Mother had read to me… and it wasn’t age that made her stop reading them. She kept going, only making them more mature. I think there was just a day that I stopped listening. God, Mom, why? Why leave all these notes?

“I miss you,” I said, caressing one of the pages. “Seems you did lose someone to the Isle of Forgotten.”

I turned to the last page of the book where a larger was written on the inner cover. It read: “Chloe, dear. Within this book are stories you were never told. Why? I cannot tell you. It was a whim from my mother to make them up; it was mine to write them down. I know the day will come when you may take up my mantle. Though no matter how old you grow, or where life leads, we shall always have this book. I love you, Chloe.”

I felt a single tear fall before wiping away the future ones. If only she knew… did she? It hurts to even imagine a future where I would forget Willow. At that moment, a thought slipped into my mind. I stood and was quick to my desk, fumbling in the oaken drawers for a singular purple pen. Then, clicking the end, I began to write in the pages of the book: “Isle of Forgotten makes people forget things” and “Has a horse named Gumdrop”. I frantically began to think about the more stories I could tell; the countless stories made me want to write fantasy. I loved every tale she wrote and should have listened to them for ages. Mother had known that. I clung to her words like a lifeblood.

I took up my purple pen, flicked to the back cover of the book, and wrote beneath the other note: “Willow, darling? This is our world now. Mine shall be in purple.”

—© 2025 by Brady Hurst

The Harsh Waters

The water beneath the boat shimmered like liquid glass, the surface, once still, now kissing the edges and sending ripples across the rest of the open water. For miles, only small islands appeared, each one of them holding a tiny ecosystem, with the sun just kissing the horizon.

The boat scuffed and worn smooth, paint chipped away little by little over the years of being on the water. What was once a blue boat, now bore the marks of time. Splotches of tan where the water had worn through. Like the boat, the man within it had been worn down, a shadow of what he once was.

Rowing and rowing, his arms pushing, his head spinning, but he kept moving. His eyes, just like the boat, fixed on the horizon, frantically looking, in search of something. All that could be seen was the sunset, casting mixes of orange, pink, blue and red, but he kept looking for something else. His gaze remained fixed, as though the horizon would change to something else if he kept looking.

The air around him soon grew cold and heavy, the clouds ahead darkening as the light dimmed. A sudden flash went across the sky as thunder followed, shaking him to his core, but he kept on rowing and rowing, kept looking. With every stroke, the darkness grew closer, yet he kept moving, unfazed by what was ahead of him. His body was like a machine, a goal set in mind. Even with the darkness looming over him, he kept rowing.

The water grew choppy, throwing the boat side to side, while the air turned violent as the clouds hovered over him. None of it mattered to him, but only the thing ahead of him, yet nothing laid ahead of him anymore. There in front only laid the swirling of clouds, and white lines flashing across the sky. His face faltered as he looked up at the sky above of him, his chest tightening, his mouth agape.

The waves became more violent. He didn’t understand how things could have gotten so bad. The water threw his little boat as if it were nothing. His arms burned as he tried to row the boat across the hectic water, but to no avail, nothing work. The motions grew too much, his arms grew weak, he tried to grip at the oars only for them to slip from his hands each time. Each stroke felt like it wasn’t getting the boat anywhere, only moving it farther from where it needed to be. His finger slipped from one of the oars, but this time, he couldn’t grasp it in time. He watched desperately as the wood slipped from his fingers and disappeared into the turning water below him.

He didn’t reach for the oar. He couldn’t. Instead, he sank into the boat, his body too tired to try any longer. His limbs and eyes felt heavy; his chest tight. He pressed his back against the wood, staring up to the sky, the storm staring back threateningly, but he no longer cared. The boat continued to rock violently underneath him, but he just stared blankly. He closed his eyes slowly, as if no energy left to open them, he laid. The waves crashed onto the sides of the boat, the hull groaning in protest as if it might break apart. With one final, dangerous push, the boat tipped over, plummeting him into the sharp cold water.

Instead of darkness taking over, light and warmth washed over his body. The cold harsh water disappeared, replaced with low hum of machinery and the harsh scent of antiseptic. His eyes slowly fluttered opened, the light was bright at first, but he quickly adjusted. in front of him, his hands connected to tubes, and a soft beep broke the silence of the room

3

The boat? What happened to his boat? The water? The storm? Why couldn’t he remember how he got here? It didn’t make any sense. He moved his limbs, but they felt as if they were lead. He groaned, straining himself as he lifted his head, his eyes scanning the unfamiliar room around him.

“Mr. Adler you’re awake,” a soft voice broke the silence, his eyes landing on a woman who just entered the room. Her lips turned downwards as she caught the look on his face. “Mr. Adler, do you remember why you are here?”

He gently shook his head, even that causing a great deal of effort.

“You overdosed.”

—© 2025 by Sieria Ninnemann-Cobb

An Undying Companion

I had never intended to allow the creature to take my life so thoroughly. It’s true that I hadn’t even noticed the peculiarity of my symptoms or their onset until I was informed by outside sources. As I have recalled the events, I now believe this to be because it all happened rather slowly, but it also happened all at once. This onset would, of course, cause someone who is living in the body that is being procured, to struggle with pinpointing the chronology. Still, I realized later, that the creature had been sucking the life out of me for nearly a year before I was seen by physicians and yet another half before the cause of my illness could be determined.   

It began with my nights being haunted; of that, I am most sure. Each morning, I would arise and feel as though I had passed the whole night without a single drop of sleep. This extreme lethargy followed me throughout the entire day, but the mornings were by far the worst. If I were to rise immediately upon waking, I was sure to stumble right to the floor. My head would fill with the most elusive fuzz as if I, and everything that was me, had been plucked out and replaced by whisps of cotton, spinning and tangling itself into an evermoving skein. Sometimes, the faint whisper of steps on dry, dead leaves would accompany the fuzziness in my head. I think I realize now, it was the sound of his footsteps drawing nearer. I often felt as though all the blood from the top of my body was gone, and only the tingle of blood in my legs remained. Regrettably, I never searched my neck or breast for those two familiar pinpricks. Though, I am now sure I would have found them, for it was often my left breast that had the most peculiar ache, which I never could explain.   

As the lethargy tightened and held me throughout the day, I found myself  in a state of melancholy. I began to struggle with the work I was good at and found myself in bed most days. Simply changing the position of which I laid was oftentimes a physical feat I was unprepared to achieve. My heart would race at the smallest sense of movement, and sometimes at none at all. I could feel my heart detaching itself with a hard, steady thump, poking at my stomach, and finally crawling into my throat. At the best and worst of times my heart would no longer be pleased with its location and instead would come to beat in my throat.   At the time, I believed I was struck with the familiar onset of melancholia and that, like other times, it would pass. Alas, it only continued.  

The worst, I believe, was the episodes of complete control. Unfortunately, I was not the one in control, rather it was him, lingering near me, I am sure. It would start as my eyelids got awfully heavy, heavier even than the exhaustion would typically cause. I would have no other choice but to shut my eyes.  My head filled with the now familiar fuzz and my words did not come to the surface as easily as they should. I am not sure if this was due to the fuzz in my head or if I was simply so exhausted that I could not be bothered to find them. If I tried to open my eyes, and I often did, my eyes would roll back, shrinking from the light. My eyes would begin to water, tears streaming, completely out of my control. I would lay, when possible, or lean back as much as I could. My muscles were weak, eyes closed, silent, just there. Until he decided to let me up. The fatigue after these episodes is incomparable. It is as if he had came up to me and drained my life away right before my eyes, and yet, I never saw him, I never felt the prick of his teeth, I only felt what he has taken.  

At this point, I was nearly completely unable to perform any physical activity as simply leaving my bed could call on the worst of symptoms. The room in which I remained most of my day kept its curtains shut, keeping the sunlight tucked away from me. The dust became clear as I could not rise to wipe it away. I often believed I smelled a ghostly odor, giving the room a lifeless stench. I asked my visitors if they smelt it as well, yet it seemed that the olfactory apparition continued to only appear to me. As I lay in silence, I often saw the shadows of the room move about out of the corner of my eye. Both the room and what was in it began to crawl closer with each day. I fear it would not have been long before I became one of them myself. The flowers given to me by my dear spouse who was unable, of course, to spend the days in torpor with me, had soon mirrored me, the only other living thing in the room. They wilted, their stems molded, and the petals often fell. Life sucked out of us both.  

Yet, it was not until the physician, who was called for an entirely superfluous reason, took count of my heartbeats that I was informed that something was irregular. As these symptoms took hold, it was easy to believe nothing was of issue, that it was just the overactive parts of my mind that had created them. That was until a physician, worried greatly about a woman of my age with such an irritable heart, insisted on finding the cause. They performed many tests to seek out the cause of my palpitations, but nothing seemed to be abnormal, though the physicians could clearly see something was the matter. My heart was strong, albeit fast, and it did seem to have a tendency to skip a beat here and there, but overall, they could find nothing to indicate my heart was weak. Yet, the lethargy, the melancholia, the episodes, the inability to do any physical activities, not even the often walk through the forest I was so accustomed to, indicated that something was causing a mysterious ailment to overtake me.  

Throughout this all, visitors stopped calling as their questions could never be answered. As they could not understand the illness, and neither could I. I could only explain to them an unknown and seemingly ever-changing mystery. While it was easier for them to stop asking and stop witnessing, the isolation only caused the shadows to come closer even quicker. I do believe it was at this point I was closest to having all life sucked out of me. With little left to try for, I admittedly no longer feared the nights in which he would come and drain my soul. I instead accepted the fact that he would come, and it would continue as it had for the past year and more.  I only hoped that I remained his victim and that my loved ones, near or far, would never come to truly understand what it was to have their very soul drained of them.  

Eventually, the physician gave me a medication, though his eyes fell upon my neck just a moment too long as he handed them over. He too must have realized the reality, and mortality, of my situation. I was to take one pill every morning and every night, and it was important to do so. This, I believe, must be a medication to keep him away. I do not know what the pill contains. Garlic, iron, silver, or even perhaps something from the priest. Whatever it is keeps him at a distance, though has not banished him completely. He is still near, and sometimes he gets far too close, and I am unable to fight off his influences. Though the medication, whatever it may be, keeps him far enough away that I have restored some of the life he took.  I cannot tell you where he found me, as I do not know where he followed me from. I cannot tell you why he stays, as I do not know why he stays. However, I believe I can tell you how long he will be with me, and that is nothing less than forever. One night, through the gasping cries of my exhaustion and longing for my life back, I looked into the shadows in which I knew he hid. I screamed at him, though I never had as much as whispered to him before. My voice spattered with a thirst for air as my breath could not relieve my lungs, I cried, “When will you leave me to live?”  It was his silence, the movement of the shadows, and the touch to my heart that he provided his answer. Held at bay he might be, but he will never leave me.

—© 2025 by Rebecca Stewart

Grandpa

Hi Grandpa, I heard you left today. I hope you have safe travels. Grandma and I hugged and shared stories about you. We had to visit outside covid didn’t pass yet. I can’t believe you had to leave in 2020.
12/31/2020

Hi Grandpa the family and I partied hard for you last night being new year’s eve and all. I know you weren’t the party type but you did love your beer and family time.
01/01/2021

Hi Grandpa do you remember the time that we went to the fair and Grandma’s boss wanted to make sure you had lots of food? Lol I still have that picture of you.
01/07/2021

Hi, we had to move your party day to February. Dave gave the entire family covid. Hopefully no one gets too sick.
01/19/2021

Hey, it’s been a month since you left. Sometimes I look out the window and wait for you to come back. I haven’t seen you in over a year now. I wish I said hi one last time.
01/31/2021

Hi Grandpa, it’s valentines day, did you get Grandma flowers every year or go out for valentines? I like to get a heart pizza and stay in. We miss you.
02/14/2021

Hey Grandpa, your party was today. I hugged Dad for the first time in 3 years. I need to feel this grief with him. Your last home is very beautiful. Your family from Switzerland sent flower arrangements. I didn’t expect to cry as hard as I did. It feels like you’re actually gone now. I had a cherry old fashioned just like your favorite from Ecstasy. I also took a picture of your knee, the metal one. I wonder who’s going to keep it. I hope you had your own party today. I miss you.
02/20/2021

Hi Grandpa, I took a ride with my mom today and we said hi to you as we left. It was hard.
03/10/2021

Hi, it’s summer now. I know you loved being outside and enjoying the nice weather. I’ll have some coffee outside just for you.
06/21/2021

Hey Grandpa I’m 17 today. I wish you were here. I miss you Grandpa.
08/15/2021

It’s Christmas month Grandpa. You’re favorite time of year. Laurie said you were really sentimental last year. I think you knew that it would have been the last Christmas you had. I regret that I didn’t see you for over a year before you left. I miss you. I love you, I hope that you know that.
12/01/2021

Well you’ve been gone for a year today Grandpa. I say hi to you every time I pass by. Did I love you enough? Did you know that I loved you? I love you so much and I wish I could tell you that. Did you wish that I was there? I wish I was there. I hurt Grandpa. Did I hurt you? I miss my family Grandpa. I wish I could hear you tell me that everything happens for a reason. I don’t understand this reason. I wish Dad I didn’t fight. I wish mom would’ve let me spend time with my family. Will it get better? Does it stop hurting? Will I always regret not being there with you?
12/31/2021

I got drunk Grandpa. I didn’t know my own name. I miss you. A part me is missing.
01/01/2022

I graduated today Grandpa. I pictured you in the audience next to Grandma. I hope you would’ve been proud. It’s been a long road to get here. I didn’t think I’d do it Grandpa. I did it.
05/16/2022

I’m 18 today Grandpa. It’s one of those days where I wish I could sit with you on the deck swing and you’d hold my hands and tell me that it’s going to be okay. It’s not okay Grandpa nothing is okay.
08/15/2022

I dropped out of college today Grandpa. I know I could tell you but I can’t tell anyone else. I’m scared of what my mom will say but I know I made the right choice at least for now. I need a break I feel like I’m falling apart. 09/06/2022

I almost joined you today Grandpa. I want to be with you. Life here is too hard. I wish you took me with you.
11/07/2022

I finished my first semester of college Grandpa. I hope you can see me from where you are. I miss you. I love you. I hope you know I love you. Was I there enough? Did you know? Did I love you enough? I still miss my family Grandpa.
05/06/2023

Dad and I are talking again Grandpa. I hope this ends in a good way. It makes my heart hurt for you all over again. Are you sure I loved you enough? I should’ve been there with you. Everything is so messed up Grandpa I don’t know what to believe anymore. I should’ve been there. I hope I loved you enough.
08/10/2023

Merry Christmas Grandpa. I’m with my family today. Dad and I have a relationship again. I’m starting to feel whole again. Thank you for watching over me.
12/25/2023

Hi Grandpa, I’m moving in with Dad. I was with family on Saturday. I feel part of the family again. I saw your picture on the wall in Grandma’s house. I still look like you. I love you Grandpa. Thank you for guiding me even when you weren’t here.
03/25/2024

—© 2025 by Casey Sturzenegger