by Kara Kahnke

I was six years old when they buried my friend with his teddy bear. His muscles were too weak, and the hard plastic body cast that made him cry couldn’t hold him together anymore. I had a mouth full of a boot-shaped Christmas sugar cookie when I learned he was gone. He was the first person I knew who died. I thought my parents were taking me to see a skeleton when we went to say goodbye. I wanted to go anyway. My friend’s green eyes were closed and Teddy was cuddled next to him. I said, “Mommy, he’s sleeping.”

Kara Kahnke holds a B.A. in journalism from the Walter Cronkite School of Journalism and Mass Communication, but has always been passionate about fiction as well. She often uses writing to process her thoughts about the world. When she is not writing, she enjoys playing the harmonica. She lives in Tempe, Arizona.