Seven years. Seven the number I love. Seven years, the name of the song this journal was named from when you began; seven years, balanced so perfectly between worlds of magic and worlds of comprehension, where reality was still as fascinating as dreams.
I take in the tumbling wisps of curls of your little sister and wonder how much you'd have resembled her, or resented her, or if she would have even existed if you had been a reality instead of a dream. I wonder at the strong blonde dissimilarity of your older brothers and wonder if you'd have been like one, or the other, or somewhere between, or nothing like either of them at all. I wonder if I would have still existed if you'd been a reality instead of a dream.
So much has changed and passed me by in seven years. Our gift to you, the only one we had to give, was that you would remain unchanged, perfect, pure, existing only in love, beauty, and memory.