I sit at the edge of my driveway drinking an apple juicebox, staring at my purple toenails. I’m eighteen but parts of me have never stopped feeling twelve, my toes mostly. But when I was twelve my aunt lived next door and now I can tell every time I see the potted flowers on the porch that someone else is living in her house. I’m eighteen and I can’t feel twelve because when I was twelve I wasn’t missing a limb. She was the one who taught me to knit and how to go through books like water. She was the one who taught me that your life can still be great after your husband leaves you and that things are usually better than they seem. I mean, she’s not dead or anything but someone an hour away is never as close as someone next door, in more ways than one.