Letters to Gibran

Chapter 6

Chapter 6

I usually tried to separate myself from any stress that I encountered throughout the day. But right now, as I sat at my desk with pages and pages of highlighted notes that consisted of a mixture of typed and handwritten bulk of words I was finding it extremely difficult to do so. It was another Friday night spent holed in my room. The rest of the house was conservatively silent which meant my parents were at a Haflee and my siblings were making the most of it elsewhere. I sat for a little longer, hoping my motivation to study would reignite again but after a full minute I pushed back on my chair and thought about all the possible things I could do on a Friday night. There weren't many options to choose from. I didn't have a car to drive, so leaving the house was not even a choice right now. I could start the new season of Riverdale, but then I'd be hooked on it for the rest of the night and I had an 8am shift the next morning. As I sat there and went over other alternatives my eyes fell on the brown chest underneath my bed.

The invisible light bulb lit up over my head. I could write to Gibran.

Gibran knew all my secrets from the age of nine when I was given the task of writing to someone I wished I had known in my life. You could pick anyone. Dead or living. I had chosen a man who I had never met before. He was as my father would like to call him, the greatest poet Lebanon gave to the world.

I dragged the small sized chest from underneath my bed and swiped a finger across its surface which was covered in dust that had been collected over the years. It had been five years since the last time I had opened this box and placed a letter inside of it. I grabbed the key that was still kept in its spot underneath the chest and opened it. Seeing all those letters from years ago set off something inside of me that I hadn't felt in years. The relief mixed with the joy of having my memories not only locked away in my head but on paper so that I could relive every moment that I felt was so important years ago. Important enough to one day read when I had fulfilled all my dreams and desires.

Running my finger along the edges of my letter, I opened up the first one and began reminiscing on each line.

Dear Gibran.

My daddy says that you are one of the greatest people Lebanon had to offer. He says Saint Charbel is the greatest but you come second... I hope that doesn't upset you. I'm not too sure what you look like or what you are like but my daddy read some of your poems to me one night and I said to him, Daddy, he sounds a bit like you. I think that made him happy.

So, the reason I'm writing you this letter is for a journal task that my Mrs Whisket gave us for homework. We have to write to someone about anything we like. There isn't really much to talk about. Instead, I thought about asking you some questions. I don't know if this sounds too forward. I have three questions. My first one is, how did you know you wanted to become a writer?

Were your parents happy when you became a writer?

Do you still visit Lebanon, even though you moved to America?

Hope to hear from you soon,

Yours truly,

Amira-Rose

Dear Gibran,