Dear Dad

September 5th

September 5th,

            Anabella and I made a pact on the first day of summer vacation.  We agreed that we’d spend every day together until the first day of school.  And we did.  Whether it was the entire day or only an hour we spent time together every single day of vacation.  I loved every minute of it.  It would be more than fine with me if I could spend every day of the rest of my life with her.

            When I saw her in school this morning I went up to her and jokingly said, “Long time, no see.”  She smiled and jokingly pushed me. I walked her to homeroom and kissed her goodbye.

            Another year, same homeroom, same snooty girls, same laughing and throwing my schedule in my face, this time they were laughing at my AP writing.  “What?”  I questioned.  “I like writing, I’m good at it, and I’m getting college credit for taking AP.”  I explained to them.  “Ooh college credit!”  The middle girl mocked at me.  I ignored her and focused on the fact that her eyeliner had gotten increasingly thicker, in other words she looked less like a slut and more like a raccoon.

            Anabella and I took AP writing together.  For the past two years I’ve loved every piece of hers I’ve read.  Not just because of the feelings she puts into it and the way her pieces were written, but because they changed you a little every time you read them.  Her writing was brilliance in just its style and detail alone, but Anabella always put in some sort of abstract idea that made you think and question and wonder, which made them absolute genius.  For example, last year our assignment was to write a paper on something from our childhood.  In mine I talked about my life in Florida and things we use to do for fun.  Anabella wrote hers on how she remembered being taught how to write.  She said in it that she remembered siting at her kitchen counter with paper and a pencil in front of her.  Her mother showed her how to write the alphabet.  She could remember that her mother was taking cookies out of the oven when she wrote her name for the first time.  She could remember her first sentence was “Dad is home from work.” Only she spelt it “Dad is hom frum wuk.”  She wrote about how from the beginning she always loved to write.  She used to write short stories and give them to her mom to read.  Her mom would then correct her spelling and grammar and give them back to her.  Eventually she learned all that she knows now.  Then at the end she wrote, “If you truly think about it, writing is a skill we all can be great at.  We all learn to write the same way and at almost the same pace.  It just takes interest and dedication to be able to use this common skill in a way that can touch the lives of those who have yet to try.”  It’s a simple ending that made me wonder, what if none of us had been taught to write?  The world would be a very different place.  There would be no books, no internet, no letters, no history, and so much more.  In fact if no one was ever taught to write, you would not be reading this right now.  Strange isn’t it?