Wednesday, June 8, 2011


Dear Five Year Old Self,
I miss you in the strangest way possible.  Strange because I do not remember you.  I cannot recall what you liked or what made you scared.  I cannot recollect what your favorite color, or song, or most cherished object was.  I do not remember what made you cry or how often you did so.  I do not remember if you feared monsters or whatever else lives under five year old’s beds.  
I miss you though it feels like I hardly know you.  Or knew you.
I miss you because, since I can’t remember you, I am convinced that times were simpler.  Less complicated. Less convoluted with life and love and the odd uncomfortable mixture of the two.  I miss you because you existed in a time where death and loss and grief were foreign.  I miss you because you lived in a world that was blind to abuse and rape and mis-use and manipulation.  You existed in a space where life was hardly hard and there was a smile at the peak of every day.
I miss you though I hardly know you.  Or knew you.
And I know it is strange to say I miss you because essentially I am saying that I miss me.  But not saying it would not make it any less true.
I miss you.  Because I miss me too.

Felecia Roberts functions largely as a ghostwriter and often authors under various pseudonyms.  She has received many accolades in following her dreams.  She has a letter writing series that can be found and is working on her first book.

1 comment:

CheWithBlingOn said...

Definitely can relate to this piece. I don't have too many vivid memories of my own childhood period. Kudos