Spud,

I wondered how the cosmos aligned for you to be exactly there in that fourth grade classroom. Where we pressed our sticky hands onto the glass. The same place you had to call your home.

Did you ever wish you could just jump out? Did you ever think, "I wish Mariah Hawkinson would stop tapping the goddamn glass?" Or were you impartial?

Fourth grade was not a good time. Check plus. Check minus. Stop that. Pay attention. Do you homework. Go outside and play. Tulip Time Parades in the rain.

Let me tell you Spud. Your life seemed pretty easy. Everyday I pass taxidermy ducks. They have cold feet like sheet metal. They say, "You are not welcome here".

College is not a good time. The best four years of your life. 4am nights. Undercooked chicken. Red solo cups. Overdue library books. Community showers. Half hearted actions.

Spud. They say repetition makes an action less meaningful. I would say this is accurate. If you say, "I love you" a hundred times over... if becomes just a things to say.

Let me tell you Spud. I was worried about you with everything I had. As much a fourth grader can pay attention to worry about a turtle. Today not as much.

But I still think of you sometimes. When I see someone who looks like me. When I get to the edge of my hometown. When I look to the edge of a horizon.

Best,

Liz