February 3rd, 2010
Dear Dad,
I wish you would write back to me. Or I wish I could somehow know where you are, if you’re OK, if you’re happy, or at least less unhappy.
Today after English class, Mrs. Henry asked how I was doing. I said fine. She asked if I had any news from The Other. Then she kind of tilted her head to the side, like our new dog does when it hears a high-pitched noise. It almost made me laugh out loud. But then I thought about how much I wanted to talk about you and it almost made me spill my guts to her. It almost made me tell her all about our letters back and forth and the bargain you made with me when you took on my fear of Will Mudgett. I almost told her about the bloody boat and the woods and about how much I’m wondering where you are right now.
But I didn’t tell her anything. I just stood there looking at her, thinking all that stuff. Then I said, “No. No news.” Then I left, still thinking about it all.
It made me think about that day of the fight and it reminded me that I forgot to tell you about Gilman, that 8th grader who almost killed Mudgett and who I somehow managed to knock down. He doesn’t go to our school anymore. He never came back after Christmas. I’ve heard about a million stories about why he’s not here anymore. Donnie Joad says that Gilman was so ashamed by my kicking his butt that he asked his parents to let him go to another school. Mudgett said that his mom talked to the principal about how Gilman beat him up and they kicked Gilman out. Brian Haase said he heard that Jordan Sackett told someone that Gilman’s parents moved away.
I don’t really care why he’s gone, but I’m glad he’s gone. Sometimes things just work out.
You’re gone, too. How long should I keep writing these letters to you?
Your son,
Trevor
Dear Dad,
I wish you would write back to me. Or I wish I could somehow know where you are, if you’re OK, if you’re happy, or at least less unhappy.
Today after English class, Mrs. Henry asked how I was doing. I said fine. She asked if I had any news from The Other. Then she kind of tilted her head to the side, like our new dog does when it hears a high-pitched noise. It almost made me laugh out loud. But then I thought about how much I wanted to talk about you and it almost made me spill my guts to her. It almost made me tell her all about our letters back and forth and the bargain you made with me when you took on my fear of Will Mudgett. I almost told her about the bloody boat and the woods and about how much I’m wondering where you are right now.
But I didn’t tell her anything. I just stood there looking at her, thinking all that stuff. Then I said, “No. No news.” Then I left, still thinking about it all.
It made me think about that day of the fight and it reminded me that I forgot to tell you about Gilman, that 8th grader who almost killed Mudgett and who I somehow managed to knock down. He doesn’t go to our school anymore. He never came back after Christmas. I’ve heard about a million stories about why he’s not here anymore. Donnie Joad says that Gilman was so ashamed by my kicking his butt that he asked his parents to let him go to another school. Mudgett said that his mom talked to the principal about how Gilman beat him up and they kicked Gilman out. Brian Haase said he heard that Jordan Sackett told someone that Gilman’s parents moved away.
I don’t really care why he’s gone, but I’m glad he’s gone. Sometimes things just work out.
You’re gone, too. How long should I keep writing these letters to you?
Your son,
Trevor
Filed under Letters from Son | Tags: adolescence, afterlife, fatherhood, junior high school, middle school, purgatory, The Other, writing | Comment (0)