HM

You don't really know me.

But I know you.

We were classmates for a brief minute, and then you graduated.

You became a successful writer, securing a fellowship at a prestigious school. I stayed here and continued working.

I always admired your writing; the way you creatively spoke in class. You were gifted; I knew it from the start. And I wished we could have been friends, but I was a non-traditional student. The old one. Often the outcast.

Perhaps you remember me, working at your alma mater, inviting you back to do a poetry reading for our Board. You were so impressive - sharing your experiences in war. I could tell the audience was moved. I read your article that was published by the Times, and I wished I could write like that. But writing like that is created in the deepest waters of experience.

I'm writing this today because I found out that your mom passed away in December. And I cried at my desk. I'd met your mom twice in my office. She seemed so upbeat and talented. I wondered if you and your brother and your father were ok. I wondered if you still wrote. I wondered what would happen to me if it were my mom.

As strange as this is, sometimes knowing that someone else is sad brings comfort. I hope you are surrounded by comfort today. I hope that you rise in these deep waters.