Signed, Someone Special

Have you ever had a happy moment in your life? One with your parents? How about with your father? It was probably a pretty great moment, right? I wouldn't know. I've never had the chance to play catch with my father. To laugh with my father. To talk to my father. I've never even met my father. But I know who he is. It all started when I was nine years old. This is the story of James Caulfield.

During my childhood, I had only really known my mother, my next door neighbor, Tom, and the dirty apartment building we lived in. Sure I had friends at school, but they all had their own lives and I had mine. My mother worked two jobs as a waitress and a night shift as a cleaner, yet she always made time to come home, make dinner, and send me to bed. It may not have been the most ideal lifestyle, but to me, it was better than heaven itself. I had my set of chores, my own room, a small collection of books, a good school with friends, food on my plate, and my mother; Nothing could be better.

So life went on one day at a time. I did my chores, got the mail, cleaned the rooms, and lived a peaceful life. Then I got the mysterious letter addressed to James C. in a fancy, yet messy, cursive handwriting. Without a second thought, I opened the envelope and unfolded the parchment inside. I had found a poem inside that gave the impression that each letter in each work in each sentence was handled with great precision and delicacy. You could practically feel the emotion pouring from every word.

To a dear friend

Who may never know me

Until the very end.

I wish you the best of luck

On a journey that may leave you

Incredibly awestruck.

Some may know it

Some may not

But it is no trick.

It is the journey of a child

Who will venture into the unknown

With nothing but a smile.

Signed,

Someone Special

I was incredibly confused as I gawked over the poem. I had shown it to my neighbor, Tom, who was a close friend and a skilled writer.

"May I ask who sent this to you" he had asked me and I responded with an 'I am not sure'.

He then started rambling on about how he wished had had as much inspiration as the mystery writer. It seemed to give him some inspiration on his story, and he began to write. Afterwards I showed it to my mother. She seemed to have no real interest in the poem, but whenever it seemed like I wasn't looking, she would peer over at the poem with a hint of emotion in her eyes. Perhaps awe? Perhaps confusion? Or perhaps it was a hint of sadness that filled her eyes? I did not know.

When the curiosity got the best of me, I made the decision to write a letter back. Nothing too serious, just asking a few questions like their current profession, hobbies, favorite colors, etc, but not revealing to much about myself. I didn't know this person and I wouldn't reveal the wrongs things. When I received a letter back, there was no poem, but a simple response to the questions I had asked. He seemed happy to talk about himself, telling stories about his childhood and his projects that he liked to work on.