Just like on any other day, we shuffled through the dry leaves and faded grass of autumn. Just like on any other day, we talked and laughed as we hurried along. Just like on any other day, the sky was big and blue above us, and the pavement was cracked beneath our feet. All around us, the world was full of things—lights and shadows and air and wind and noises and cars moving and trees growing and kudzu vining and cats pouncing and everyone living their lives. The world was so big and so full, and that was just fine.

But most of it didn’t concern us.

Not me and Jasper.

Not right now.

Acknowledgments

When I was eight, my cousin Scott died. We weren’t terribly close, but we were exactly the same age, and his death was a huge shock to me. It was my first encounter with the death of a child—always a terrible disruption in the order of things. I was frightened and confused. I had so many questions, but what I quickly discovered was that nobody could (or would) answer them.

A few years later, when I was about Jasper’s age, I discovered that I had several friends who were living on their own, without parents. Somehow, they were feeding themselves, keeping their houses (mostly) clean, and managing to get to school. As shocking as that was, I never considered reporting any of these situations to an adult. The kid code was clear to me—even when I was concerned for my friends, my job was to keep quiet, and show up with groceries or petty cash when I could.

I’m still not exactly sure why these two sets of memories converged as they did in My Jasper June. I know that I wanted to write about the dangers of silence and the secrets kids keep. I wanted to write about pain and how friendship—real friendship—can ease that pain. Above all, I wanted to write about how strong kids can be, and about how grown-ups often underestimate their experiences. I wanted to tell a story about how sometimes kids step in and do the work their parents can’t, for each other. And, in doing so, create their own chosen families.

This book went through many drafts and incarnations, and I had to dwell in some dark memories to write it. While I don’t want to reveal anything identifiable about people who value their privacy, I need to acknowledge them here. I’m so thankful to the friends I had in those years—the kids who opened their lives and homes to me when we were young. Who made themselves vulnerable, and taught me to do the same. Life wasn’t always pretty as we fumbled along together, but we made it through (on a steady diet of ramen), and I’m very grateful to those folks. I hope they know what they meant to me.