Dear Miles,

Ten years ago this very day, you left us forever.

I don't know what you would think of all this. I didn't know you as well as I should have.

I'm sorry to make this about me, but you can't talk anymore. You should be 27.

Here's what I remember. You were vibrant. You always seemed restful, even when you weren't. Your hair was incredible and bright blonde, like a violin bow unfurled. I remember that. I remember your braces, too. I remember your smile. I remember your easy agreeability.

I remember when you were a fat little baby, and (I tell this story all the time) you were toddling around my apartment in Morgantown and you picked up a letter that my roommate was going to mail and you ripped it open and I lunged at you and said "no!" and you started crying right there while your dad and I laughed.

I remember that, too.

I still see you in my dreams. Maybe I'll dream about you tonight.

I have a dumb question. When I dream about you, is that you visiting me? I hope so. I also hope you have better things to do, like explore the universe. Forgive me if I don't say hi in there. In my dreams you're supposed to be there so it's not strange to me that you still look like this, 10 years on:

I don't just think about you on August 21, but I always think about you on August 21. I tell people. I tell them about the website your dad made for you. Your peers would call me "cringe."

Wait, no they wouldn't. You're a millennial. You're not Gen Z. I'm sorry, in my mind you're still 17.

You're lucky. Wait, hear me out. You don't have to get old and watch everybody else get old and busted and die around you. You don't have to have cancer scares. You don't have to have any more fucked up surgeries. You get to be remembered as a twanged bow string, vibrating forever. You get to stay put while the rest of us have to keep moving on and on and on.

You vibrated so much. You made so much great art --

I mean it, you made really great art -- in such a short time that it's almost as if --

No, I won't say it.

You didn't know you were leaving until you were already gone.

I'm going to wrap this up.

I don't know if you can read this. I think it's probably silly to think you can, but I don't care. I don't pray but this is a kind of prayer anyway.

I remember in Morgantown, shortly after you died, they released paper lanterns into the sky in your memory. That's kind of like what this letter is. It's going to go up and out and away.

I hope wherever you are is nice. I hope you can skate or take photographs or maybe just laugh a lot at all the silly shit we do down here. That's a nice thought.

Okay well I'm going now

Jimmy