Letters About Literature

The morning of May 7, 2005, our family's Camry sat parked in the crowded lot outside my elementary school. I could sense the enthusiasm surounding me as I observed the individuals entering the location where my first six years of public education would formally end, though I did not share in their excitement. I held still with my legs crossed neatly. My aunt was fixing my hair on the back seat since we'd left home with me undressed, afraid my father would come back. I walked in with Mrs. Albright's fifth grade class panting. Our last minute preparations left me with little time to address my anxiety. I saw all the parents in the bleachers, smiling at the children they spent all morning dressing, giggling at the sickeningly simply lyrics written for our special day.

The morning I finished your book was bright and filled with bustling spring air. Never had I felt more out of place in my so-close-to-perfect world. I cried, a delicate sorrow, letting the cool tears trickle down my rounded cheeks. After the seemingly endless tears dried on my face, I abruptly sat up on my bed, asking myself, Did I end this world forever?

Sleep seems like a small price to pay to live each day energetic and happy. We get up, we say good morning and good night to the people we love. Young children notice the smallest things when it is time to go to bed because they are making an effort to stay awake. Every night children that don’t understand the necessity of sleep, fight the war with their eyelids, trying to amaze themselves with this and that. I remember doing this when I was young and even to this day I still fight the battle of slumber; everyone does.

Without reading Farmer Boy, I might still think Almanzo and Laura Ingalls Wilder were just old people who lived a long time ago and who could not teach me anything important. Now I know that values like speaking truthfully and working hard do not change. If Almanzo were still here, he and I would love sledding down my hill, eating donuts (bought, not made by my mom!), and throwing snow balls. 

But, thanks to you, it was not the last time I heard her. Because now, every rainy day, all I have to do is pull out my battered copy of The Cat in the Hat, and I am back in that hospital room again. I can still hear her soft, raspy voice tell me about Thing 1 and Thing 2. I can still hear her tell me that “the sun did not shine. It was too wet to play.”

In the beginning, Katsa would grudgingly follow orders, like me with my dad, but later, she learned to stand up for herself. By seeing her success with questioning authority, I learned to not blindly follow orders. I didn't become obstinate, but would logically and respectfully make my viewpoint known. I learned to come from a place of questioning and understanding rather than childish rebellion.

But with the realization of age, comes a dual epiphany, the same that comforts Helen Loomis, Great Grandma Spaulding, and Douglas alike: what comes in between birth and death is what is truly significant. We cannot defeat death. But we can win, in our own way. We can live in spite of inevitable entropy, make the most of the small space in time we are allowed. 

Reading about Penny made me realize that I'm not the only one who has been picked on at school or felt lonely. Her success with making friends and winning contests inspired me to change how I look at things. I now feel like I'm not alone anymore. My self confidence has improved a bunch. I feel better about my life. I know now that things can change in my life and that my future lies in my hands. 

There are poems that make you smile, poems that are depressing, and poems that bring you a sense of joy. Mr. Poe, your poem “Annabel Lee” changed my life. Before I read your poem, I was going through a hard time.