Four Years Later

Dear Mr. Wood,

It was a simple task, you gave us

Four years ago

‘Write whatever you want

As long as it is a poem.’

I didn’t think much of it, until pen on paper

It was just a grade until four hours later

Laying on the floor, hands trembling, words shouting at me

As they were loosely strung together.

I was young, artless, and sloppy brained

My frustration laid in a pile of crumpled paper and swollen cheeks.

I poured out everything

From bottled secrets of exaggerated, traumatic memories

To raw, infatuated feelings for relationships turned future strangers.

Wrapped in black plastic, 12 pt. Font Times New Roman.

Aftermath didn’t hit til weeks later

Marginalia in blue ink

‘Come see me after class.’

It was then I realized

Everything I wrote

Everything I felt

Everything I lived through, dreamt of

Had been read through the eyes of someone else.

Dread hit first in my throat

As the class bore on, it got harder to breathe

Harder to think

Of anything besides my inevitable fate.

I was certain that as soon as that bell rung

My classmates gone

You would tell me I was crazy

And I would be dead meat when I got home.

I stared at my desk

Tracing thin lines carved by alumni before me

Felt a chair pull up next to me

Tears fell before you even uttered a word

I couldn’t bare to look at you.

But imagine my surprise

When my golden-haired English teacher

My tattooed, scruffy beard, football playing English teacher

Strung together the words

‘You and poetry like yours

Is the reason I teach.’

You probably do not remember

And I am not who I was four years ago

But that was my happiest memory

Of Freshman year.

I had never believed in myself

I had never believed I could write

Until I was taught by you.

That talk is the reason

Why four years later

I write today.

Sincerely,

Juliana Elwood