Tori Brooke.

Nine months. Nine months. Nine months without your humor. Nine months without your smile. Nine months without your voice, your confidence, your beauty.
It doesn't seem that long. It seems like only yesterday that I spoke to you as I walked out of that gymnastics class. I even remember what you were wearing. Well--most of it, anyway. I remember your hair was down, gorgeous short blond hair that I'd die for. [No pun intended.] And I remember your shoes. Black ballet flats, they were. And I remember thinking, 'I want a pair of those.' I don't remember your shirt, though it was probably one of the numerous resturant-themed tees that you'd bought while on vacation. Or maybe it was a cheerleading shirt, a tie-dyed one from our time at the state championship. The year Varsity won. All I know is that I'll always remember that day, the last time I saw you. Alive.
I haven't visited your grave yet. I can't bring myself to. I fret that I won't be able to take it, that I'll break down. And I don't want that. I don't cry at funerals or graves. I tell myself that the person would never come back, even if they got the chance, because Heaven is so wonderful, so pain-free, that you've lost yourself in it. But I know you haven't forgotten us, and we definitely haven't forgotten you. But I'm afraid that if I visit your grave--if I see the marker that shouldn't be there--that I will go insane where I stand. Because you didn't deserve it.
You were only fifteen.
I don't know how we'll get through Christmas without you. The first one.
It hasn't been that long. Tell me it hasn't been that long. . .
You were an amazing cheerleader, Victoria Brooke. You were an amazing person. You were going to go far in life. But apparently God needed you for a special job at that moment, and I know nobody could do that job better than you. I'll see you one day soon, and we'll have great times in Heaven. I'll always remember you. Rest in peace, Tori Brooke.