Dear Bones,

If you could see me right now, you'd say I was being illogical. I can hear your voice so clearly in my head: Why are you writing me a letter, Booth? You don't know where I am, so you can't possibly send it.

You're right, of course. As usual. But Sweets suggested that writing a letter to you, even though I can't send it, might help me deal with my "unexpressed feelings". Lately I've been dealing with them by going to the FBI gym every night after work. I spend a couple hours with the punching bag, imagining Pelant's face as the target of every punch. That usually makes me feel a little better, at least until I come home to our empty house.

It's quiet here. Too quiet. It's not right. You should be here beside me on the couch, talking about work or dinner or weekend plans. Christine should be upstairs in her crib, crying for food or a diaper change. But the only noise now is the television. (Since you've been gone, I need to have the tv on when I'm here; otherwise the quiet drives me crazy.)

There's a hockey game on. My favorite team is playing, so I should be excited. I should be cheering every goal and booing every bad call. I bet I would be if you and Christine were here. With you gone, I can't seem to care who wins or loses. Rather than flip through channels for twenty minutes only to realize that nothing interests me, like I did last night, I decided I'd try Sweets' letter writing idea. Don't tell him I'm taking his advice, okay? It'll be our secret.

Sweets said to write down everything I feel. So here it goes.

I miss you and Christine every minute of every day. It hurts so much, Bones. I thought I knew what pain was, having been shot and tortured and blown up more times than I want to remember. But none of that compares to the pain of missing my girls.

Forgive me, Bones. I know you're not a girl; you're a woman. The most wonderful woman I've ever met.

I miss the way you squint at bones and rattle off a bunch of squinty words. Your brilliant mind never ceases to amaze me.

I miss the way you smile at Christine and do that "dancing phalanges" thing with her. I know that when you were pregnant you were worried about being a good mom, but you didn't need to worry. You're so great with her. Every child should have a mom who loves them as much as you love our daughter.

I miss your touch. I miss feeling your lips on mine. I miss holding you in our bed at night after I've rocked your world.

Rocked my world? You'd say. Oh, that must be another one of your euphemisms for sexual intercourse. Well, I rock your world, too. You do, Bones. You always have. Right from the beginning.

It's getting late. I could try to go to sleep, but I hate sleeping alone in our bed. Not that I sleep much these days. How can I, when every hour I sleep is an hour I'm not helping to bring my family home?

That's ridiculous, you'd say. You have to sleep, Booth. You're not going to help me and Christine when you're too sleep deprived to think properly.

I know, baby. But, believe me, it's better if I don't sleep a minute more than I have to, because when I do sleep I have nightmares about Pelant hurting you and our daughter. Or about Agent Flynn finding and arresting you.

Flynn won't listen to me about Pelant, but Agent Shaw and other agents who know you are helping me and your squints to find the evidence we need to exonerate you. We're going to get that sonofabitch, Bones. I promise you. It's taking longer than I hoped, but I won't give up until we prove he's a murdering bastard.

He's not a bastard, Booth, you'd say. His parents were married when he was conceived.

I miss that too, the way you always contradict me.

I miss everything about you.

Okay. That's enough "expressing my feelings" for now. I'm going to get back to work so that you and Christine can come home. Give our baby a kiss for me, and tell her that Daddy is going to make everything alright again.

Yours forever,



Thanks for reading! All comments are greatly appreciated.