I still remember the day more clearly than any other. I can't tell you about the days before or the weeks following, but that day is forever ingrained in my mind.

I was 13, and it was the summer before high school. It was June 29, 2008. I was at my best friend's house with my younger sister. It was 9 p.m. We were outside, barefoot, giggling, dancing, and making each other laugh. Randomly my neighbor's dad pulled up in his car and went inside. He came out a few minutes later and told my sister Hannah and I that we had to go home.

I was terrified during the two-minute ride across the neighborhood. I gripped my sister's hand in the backseat and prayed. I prayed so hard that nothing was wrong. "Please God, please. For Hannah. Please have nothing be wrong."

We arrived at my neighbor's house, and my beautiful mother was sitting on the couch. I could tell she had been crying. One of her best friends, my neighbor's mom, told us what happened because my mother couldn't speak.

"Your father has been killed..." My brother and sister began to cry then sob.

I sat on the edge of the couch, paralyzed. I did not cry. It wasn't real. It was impossible. "This is a dream.'' I thought. "This is a terrible dream. You will wake up any moment now." That night, in a daze, I grabbed a picture off the wall and slept with it. And I cried myself to sleep even though I didn't believe.

A few days later, I found myself at a funeral with all these people who said they knew my father. I refused to cry. Why cry about something that wasn't real? At the end of the service, I went up to the casket. I felt nothing. Who was this? All I was looking at was a corpse with bad makeup on trying to cover up my father's final moments.

I forced myself to look at the bullet holes in the back of his head in case I ever decided to deal with it.

The following months were a blur. I started high school and stopped hanging out with my old friends. They didn't care about me or how I was doing. No one at school did. I probably had five friends in that first semester and almost every day, I left a class to cry in the bathroom.

As autumn turned grey, I was still in denial. I would call my father's cell phone a few times a week. I would leave him voicemails saying how my day was and how I couldn't wait to stay at his house. Then one day I called to hear, "The number you are trying to reach is no longer available".

And so began the longest winter of my life. Grey, grey, grey.

At night, I cried myself to sleep and had dreams of my father. I would be running after him and calling to him, but I could never quite reach him. I decided to learn to play the piano. To do something—I had to do something.

The pain was a stabbing pain and could be felt in my heart. My body ached with emotional agony. I felt my heart break into two thousand pieces.

My dad. My best friend. My "person". The one I threw a baseball with, traveled across the country with, laughed with, cried with, and took motorcycle rides with. The one who taught me how to work hard and respect everyone.

I began to imagine every major event in my life without him. Who was going to walk me down the aisle? Who? Who could possibly do that? Who was going to sing "Sara Smile" to me by Hall and Oates and dance with me to "Butterfly Kisses"? Who was going to watch me get my high school diploma, move on, and pursue my dreams? Not him. Not my pa.

Eventually, the stabbing pain subsided into an aching pain that followed me around for months. Only one person really understood, and I talked to Him when reading a black book with golden pages.

Without realizing it, almost a year later, I noticed when the sun was shining. I heard the sound of laughter coming from my body. I felt a quiet peace begin to permeate every corner of my soul.

Losing someone you love is like a wound. It will always be with you, and even the slightest touch can cause you to bleed in the form of salt and water. But as time moves on, the touch is less painful. It doesn't stab anymore. And the things that touch you are the kinder, gentler things.

A memory of them. A moment you remember that makes you laugh. An adventure you loved. A quality of theirs that you want to embody.

A legacy you want to carry on.