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Dear Matt, In less than a day, I_ ll be standing on the same sand you stood on so many times before. Well, not the same sand, with the tides and winds and erosion and all of that, but the same symbolic sand. I__ so excited and scared that I can_ t sleep _ even though I have to wake up in five hours! You know, I saved every one of your postcards. They__e here in a box under my bed _ all the little stories you sent, like little pieces of California. Like the beach glass you guys always brought me. Sometimes I dump it out on my desk and press my ear to the pieces, trying to hear the ocean. Trying to hear you. But you don_ t say anything. Remember how you_ d come back from your vacation on the beach and tell me what it really felt like? What the ocean sounded like at dawn when the beach was deserted? What your hair and skin tasted like after swimming in saltwater all day? How the sand could burn your feet as you walked on it, but if you stuck your toes in, it was cold and wet underneath? How you spent three hours sitting on Ocean Beach just to watch the sun sink into the water a million miles away? If I closed my eyes as you were talking, it was like I was there, like your stories were my stories. In many ways, I feel as if I have memories of you there, too. Do you think that__ crazy? Matt, please don_ t think badly about Frankie__ contest. It__ just a silly game. It__ so Frankie, you know? No, I guess you wouldn_ t. You_ d kill her if you did! She just misses you. We all do. I_ ll look out for her, though. I promise. Please watch over us tomorrow, and for the next few weeks while we__e away. You_ ll be in my thoughts the whole time, like always. I__ going to find some red sea glass for you. I miss you more than you could ever know. Love, Anna