Jack And The Box

Letter to a Grandson

My dear Jack,

You have turned seven years old three weeks ago. You are still young... I was just talking to your parents, about how amazed and lucky I had been to give birth to your mother. I was telling her the stories from when she was of your age. And a strong, deep feeling of nostalgy started torturing my mind what she admitted not to remeber most of what I said.

As I said, you are only seven, and I do not know just now, when you will have the ability to read this. But I know that somehow, someday, you will come into possession of these letters. And I sincerely hope that this day, the day you read this, as long as it may take, you will be happy in your life, and those memories will cheer you up, driving your towards an ever happier state of mind.

This first memory takes place today. October 26th of 1986. We have just arrived home from school. It is a sunny day, still quite warm considering we are slowly drifting towards winter. Knowing that, can you imagine my suprise when I found you alone, sitting under the farthest tree from the main building, reading an old novel by Lewis Carroll ? I didn't come to you right away. I watched you for a little while. I wanted my story to be accurate, so I stared at you. Even though you were lost in your book most of the time, they were a few moments when you would raise your head, looking nowhere in particular, lost in your thoughts, like you were processing the story. I don't know what exactly was running through your mind other than a late rabbit, but I sure wish I did.

We had to get home, so I decided to finallycome and bring you back to the real world, the one where caterpillars don't speak. As we left, you didn't say goodbye to any one besides your teacher. You seemed alone, did I mention that? None of your classmates came to you. You were not offended, you were holding on to me with your left hand and to your belonging with the right one. As if we were the only two things that mattered to you. That day , you almost forgot your backpack .

On our way home, I ask you why you weren't playing with the other kids. You said you were too different from them. You said, that they would accept you but that you wouldn't consider it worth it. Because they wouldn't understand you. Because you saw the world too differently. They saw it with their eyes, and you, you my dear, you saw it with the words printed in black ink on the pages of your book, fading away.

I would have pushed you towards them. I tried to be completely honest. Just a few hints. But you had already made your choice. You would rather live drowning in books. They were your world.

Have a good day.

- GrandMa.