Letter to A.A Biswell — Spoken Word

When I was four years old, you took a pen to my hand, shadowed my fingers with yours and taught me how to write.

You told me, I would be just like you because you were just like your dad and we were all meant to write.

My genes riddled with words that our family had yet to say and it was your job to teach me how to translate them.

But I haven’t talked to you in nine years.
You haven’t talked to me in nine years.

See, I emailed you.
When you didn’t email me on my 9th birthday, I emailed you.
I had a million things I wanted to tell you and my small hands didn’t have the dexterity to type them to the speed my heart was racing.
But I still emailed you.

I wanted to tell you that I could now write without your help but that mom wouldn’t listen to my stories the way you did.

In that email, I said I missed you. That it was my fault for leaving with mom a couple months ago and that I couldn’t wait to come back home.

That was nine years ago.

And I never received a response.

So now I’m here, in front of an audience, doing just what you used to do because your dad did it too and this is what we do. See, I grew up to be just like you.

You never emailed me back. Or called to tell me you missed me. You never answered my calls and it’s been nine years but I’ve finally stopped blaming myself. I’ve finally understood that there’s not much a nine year old could have done to change what happened and that maybe, it shouldn’t have been me who had to be strong for the both of us.

See, I’m starting to realize that if you died, I wouldn’t know.

But yet again … I’ve been dead for years to you.

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