Three Years

I love you, Hockley.

Thank you for calling on me when my hand wasn't raised, for waiting patiently as I stammered my way through various misreadings of Macbeth (Act I, Scene V) until finally, cheeks flushed and palms sweating, I figured it out on my own.

Thank you for displaying my Scarlet Letter creative project on your shelf as if my D (for diffident) were something I shouldn't ever feel I had to hide.

Thank you for helping me believe I was worthwhile. Thank you for telling me I should write. I do and I always will, and you will be in every single word.

I miss you so much. I wish you could see who I am because of you.