Dear Dawson

Dear Dawson-16

June 7.

  Dear Dawson, my dad died when I was only nine years old, but somehow, I still remember him. I wish I didn't. Would it still hurt as much if I didn't? Would I still cry under the covers and think about his last moments with me?

He died from skin cancer.

You already know this, Dawson, but you don't know how I really feel about it. I never told anyone, and still, I'm not. No one will find these letters. No one will know how I feel. No one cares anyways.

I remember thinking my father had turned turned into an alien overnight or something. I was only nine at the time and didn't understand what was really happening. If I could go back in time, there are so many things I'd say to him.

I'd tell him I love him.

I do. I love him more than anything.

Everything was great before he died. I was really happy then. You remember when he was alive, don't you, Dawson? He was always cheerful and he took us fishing. He even taught me how to play football and soccer. We played a lot of sports together.

Maybe that's why I love playing so much.

Maybe that's why my mother hates me playing so much.

She took down all the pictures we had of him and threw away most of his possessions. I managed to keep a few, though, like that baseball cap I'm so obsessed with and that old, worn-out jacket I wear. Everyone hates them because they look so old and ugly, but I don't. I love them.

Now, you know why- well, actually, you still don't, but I've written it down somewhere now.

My feelings should just stay on paper.

Papers won't judge me.

Love,
Kindley