This is thank you note from one of my favorite little girls. It was for a very small gift I got for her—a fun souvenir pencil from the Statue of Liberty. It amazes me how the smallest thing can make a child so happy. Honestly, this is the best letter I’ve received in years.
Translation:
The 29th Rowan Lilly Jaye Hanson Willeums
Dear Brooke, Thank you for the pencil, Brooke. Can you come to my house some day? You are such a good person to me.
Love, Rowan (Age 6)
I spent the week of Thanksgiving in Washington, D.C. with my friend and her five-year-old daughter, Francesca. I’m always amazed when I spend time with this little girl. Like most children, Francesca has barely any inhibitions and seems content simply having fun, but she’s also so smart and funny that I’m fully entertained and engaged just hanging out with her.
I started to think back to when I was a little girl and the world seemed huge, and miraculous, and just right. When life was filled with trips into the city to visit grandma and grandpa, and dance recitals, and my favorite teacher, Mrs. Wasko. When my mom was perfect, and I didn’t know my dad was so incredibly messed up. When straight A’s on my report card meant I’d grow up to be a big lawyer or anything else I wanted to be. When I didn’t have a scar on my cheek and more burned on my heart. When I had nothing to regret.
And then, one day, I was taken away. The goodbyes began. Heroes fell. People told me I couldn’t do things, and eventually, I started to believe them.
I like to imagine a world where people are nice to each other and disappointment doesn’t make us cry—a world where Francesca can grow up awaiting endless possibilities and affection. I still believe this can happen.
I wish we could all be kids forever—and we could trade coloring books, and play in sandboxes, and wait for the tooth fairy …
I was in such a hurry to grow up—to get to middle school, and then high school and college, and then the real world. Now, I’d give anything just to go back and do it all again. Especially Kindergarten. I liked Kindergarten.
Artwork by Susan Mrosek-www.ponderingpool.com
I met you at a girlfriend’s house when I was a freshman in high school. I was practicing for a dance show, and I believe awkwardly kicking my left leg in the air when you walked through Jaime’s front door with Adam. You were tall, slender, good looking, and a junior. You drove a black SUV, listened to The Counting Crow’s on heavy rotation, and smacked your gum about a million times a minute. You said hello to the five of us that day, and that was it.
I loved you for many reasons. You were kind and positive. You liked adventure and had more energy than anyone I know. You were simple, and calm, and unaffected by the world. And you were funny. You loved to laugh. You had two catch phrases: I would ask, “How was your day?” to which you always seemed to answer, “I need a vacation!” Your other phrase of choice was, “It’s not easy!” I believe this was meant to describe the part of your life that took place while not on vacation.
And I will tell you, it was not easy. Over the years, we had more than our share of ups and downs. It wasn’t easy to care about you and even more difficult to hate you. But I had fallen in love with you at fourteen, way before I even understood what love really was. You knew my great qualities and even more of my not so great qualities. Yet, you still chose to be my friend and stand by my side.
You died on a Monday in August.
I was 23. You would have been 26 that November.
After Courtney called to alert me of your passing, I got into my car, turned on the radio, and immediately the song played—your song, “Mr. Jones,” the one that always reminded me of you. You loved that song, and there it was, like a sign, or a blessing, or a warning. I don’t know why I had that experience that day, but I like to think it was simply because my friend just wanted to say “Hi.”
Well, hi back, Rick. Happy Birthday. I miss you.
-Brooklyn
