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 atwww.lettertomyunbornself.com and is working on her first book.