Y.S.T.

Dear Logan,

You turn thirteen in two days, and I'm worried about you. Your panic attacks have not improved, and your fascination with death and dying has only gotten worse with age. I'm concerned, especially after tonight.

"Logan," your mother jokingly asked you, "what would you like for your birthday?"

I expected to hear "cell phone," but you said this:

"Well, Mom, I would like my old house back, but I can't have that. I hope more closet space was worth ruining my childhood."

The look in your eyes was something I'd only seen from someone your age once before; I'd seen them in myself on one of those nights I would stare at my body in the mirror searching for and counting the number of protruding ribs I had. Your eyes were so dark and cold and so so distant. Your mother looked as if she had been punched in the chest, and what's worse, after you said that you gingerly picked up your fork and began twirling your spaghetti, acting as if nothing had happened. You didn't speak for the rest of the evening, and when the waiter took away your bowl, I noticed your food had barely been touched.

Logan, you are not your brother. He wears an auburn crown on his head, he can dance, and he can throw a ball. You are Logan; you are named after the small town in West Virginia that sits atop a mountain and looks out over the Guyandotte River, the place where your great-grandfather, a much admired sheriff, was born. You are also named after the town where he, on the day of his own parade, clutched his chest tightly and fell silently onto the cold leather seat of his old Crown Vic. You are Logan; you read poetry, you write stories, and when your cat Jessie died, you shaved off one of your eyebrows because you knew (you knew!) that that is what the Egyptians did when honoring one of their deceased feline friends.

You are a remarkable individual with an extraordinary mind, but those terribly dark eyes do not belong to such a young boy.