My Last Letter

As educators J along with L get many pieces of paper to 'look over,' peruse, and to edit from our students and most of the time it strictly deals with the mechanics of writing. A task most school-aged children, especially middle school, have not yet mastered. Being a creative writing teacher, J usually has his hands full with short stories, articles, or poems which need a lot of attention from youngsters who believe the term 'edit' is a disgusting four letter word. But once in awhile a piece comes along that needs nothing but to be read. This is a poem received just this Friday from a young boy (who's name has been withheld out of respect for the family).  It is typed exactly as it was handed in. It was not a class assignment, but an act of love.

My Last Letter

It feels like my world is standing still,

I keep telling myself it can't be real,

I finally reached my biggest fear, to awake one

day and your not there. Even though all the pain,

and struggle, your still my dad and I will always

love you. The time ahead is going to be hard,

most wounds will but also most leave a scar,

I always talk to you but now you can't respond

back.

But I know you're here and still got my back,

to my family we need to try and find, a way to

band together because time is blind, you used

to smile from cheek to cheek, And now your gone

it broke me down piece by piece, But I have to

smile because your not weak, And I'm happy

now knowing your at peace, it has to get worst

before it gets better, But I had to write you

Just one last letter.

This poem was written by a thirteen year old boy who lost his father to cancer in October of 2013. When J heard the news he took the boy aside and told him if he ever wanted to discuss the matter privately anytime would be fine. November 22nd turned out to be that day when he handed me the poem.

Through this act of love and pain, a young man brings out the meaning of the upcoming Thanksgiving. Give thanks to those we love and never let a moment slip by because those moments are not guaranteed in the future.

The father in the poem must have been one good guy since he had a hell of a great son.