Absolutely Nothing

One

Dear friend,

I knew from a young age that I was different. I was never one for the sugarcoating, for the pretty details, I was always brutally honest. Maybe that was why I am like this now; the reality was too much.

A pessimist, some would call me.

A realist, would others.

Rude, from some people.

I preferred, what's the word, 'different'. While others were obsessed with playing kickball and exchanging Pokémon cards, I preferred sitting all alone in the corner with a book. No one ever noticed me. I was the oddball. Never even trying to fit in.

Once again, I embraced reality. Never pretended to love sports so the 'cool' kids would like me. I guess I saw that none of it would matter in the long run.

I was smart, needless to say. The knowitall. The writer, the mathlete, the nerd.

Once, in the Kindergarten, our teacher asked us to write a poem about what we loved most.

And so, on a yellow piece of paper with green lines, I wrote a poem.

And I called it 'Chops'

Because that was the name of my dog

And that's what it was all about.

My mother was so proud of me. It was pretty good, for a seven year old. I remember exactly how it went.

'You said to write a poem

About what means to you

And so I wrote a poem

About his collar, that was blue

His big mouth, and his drooping skin

His fur with light brown hue

Yes, Chops is my dog

And this is what he'll do

He'll play with balls and he'll chase squirrels

He'll run till he turns grey

He'll run around the whole wide world

And this is what he'll say

Woof woof woof woof woof woof woof

And growl at you too

Woof woof woof woof woof woof woof

And that's what means to you'

My mom read it to everyone. She even hung it on the kitchen door. Every dinner guest, every family member, every living soul.

Even Chops. She read it to Chops too. I think my dad was the one who finally pulled the trigger, and the poem 'mysteriously' disappeared.

I was happy; I didn't like all the praise. It wasn't even good. I was seven. And I was still disappointed in my A+ poem with a gold star. I didn't want the lies about 'how talented he is!' And 'he's gonna grow up to be Charles Dickens, that boy!'

I didn't know what I was thinking, writing a poem about my dog. Why couldn't I have written a poem about the way the light hits the wet soil through the branches of an oak tree? Maybe I'm being too hard on my seven year old self.

But, you never know. Maybe I could have been Charles Dickens.

Sincerely,

Will