Sarah was one of the prettiest girls I knew. She was part Japanese, part white. Her eyes were big, and slightly slanted. She had long, curly black hair, and a tiny waist. She lived down the block from me, and would sometimes come over to play. She was a year older than me, but that still felt like a lot. She would always want to pretend we were characters from Peter Pan, and sometimes, she would read to me from the book. It was her favorite book. She always said, “One day, I'm going to go to Neverland. I'm not going to have a mean daddy anymore who screams all day.” She would talk about the fairies a lot too. How they were so beautiful, but you have to believe to keep them alive.

Then one day, one of her luscious black locks fell from her head. Daddy said she was sick. I remember during the summer, she would always play her cello and it would echo through the neighborhood, the most beautiful sound flowing through the warm air. Even as each lock of hair fell, and the shadows under her eyes got dark, and she slowly turn so thin she was like a ghost, she would still play. After a while, she wouldn't play as much, and she would never come over. Not long after that, I went outside one day, and it was silent. Daddy said she went to heaven. I think she went to Neverland.


Some nights, when I think of Sarah and Peter Pan and cello playing and I'm all tucked in and safe in bed, I stare out my window at the soft glow shining down from the streetlamp, and sadly whisper, “I do believe in fairies...I do...I do...”