Dear You,
I remember you so clearly in my mind, hunched over the breakfast table doing the crossword puzzle. I loved the way your brow furrowed when you were thinking hard. Your face lit up like a light bulb when you figured the answer out. Sometimes, I remember sitting there, hardly touching my breakfast, just watching you. I wanted to be like you. I wanted to know the things you knew.
I remember trying to play the piano, thinking I would finally be good enough for you to smile at me. But I never was. “Cut out that damn racket!” you would shout from your office. Your office. I loved it up there. I remember tip-toeing down that hallway, passed your bedroom and toward the one that used to belong to me. I remember tentatively knocking on the door. “Come in!” you would shout. I could never tell if you were in a good mood or a bad mood. You were always yelling.
I remember you looking up at me, pulling yourself from whatever new poem you were writing. You beckoned me to come in, and I did, sitting in that huge lumpy chair right across from you. I jumped onto the chair and I swung my feet in the air. You smiled at me, one of those rare smiles that made me grin from ear to ear, and asked if I'd been writing anything recently. I nodded my head vigorously and pushed my journal across your desk for you to read.
You read my newest story carefully, as if my childish scribble was actually legible. You crinkled your eyebrows in concentration and I looked around the room for something to hold my attention. I finally landed on the rock looking thing that I always played with. It was brown and looked like poop. I picked it up and studied it, trying to mimic your look. After a while you cleared your throat, and my eyes snapped to your face.
“That's a really good start, but can I give you some feedback?” I nodded my head. I loved your critiques. You were always honest and even when you said something wasn't good, you always made me feel happy. You inspired me. We talked about my story for a while, while I continued to play with the poop rock. Finally, you asked me if I knew what it was. I told you what I honestly thought and you gave me a nod of approval. I loved that. I loved that look. I loved making you proud.
“It's really poop?!” I asked. And you chuckled lightly, but your face was serious. It was always so serious. You told me that it was fossilized dinosaur poop, and I still think that's awesome. I remember thinking how cool it was that you got to keep dinosaur poop on your desk right where everyone could see it, when I wasn't even allowed to bring a mud pie inside without everybody yelling at me.
We talked for hours about fossilized dinosaur poop, reading, writing, science and other interesting things. I loved those talks. I loved how you talked to me like I was an adult rather than just another little kid. I hated when you'd get up from behind that desk and tell me that it was time to go and do something else. I could have talked to you for a thousand more hours. I wish now, that I was able to talk to you for at least one more hour.
That story that you liked, I finished it. I dedicated it to you and everything. It wasn't very good. But you read it anyway. You were sick then. It was around Thanksgiving and you said you loved it. You said I still had to work on it, but you were proud of me. You didn't say you were proud a lot. Those few words made me the happiest kid in the world. If it hadn't been for your instructions on how to get better and your constant encouragement, I don't think I would have ever finished anything. I don't think I would be writing this letter.
