Dear Diary,
Do you remember
The little ten year old girl
Who wrote in that book
The girl who couldn't
Spell business without spellcheck
To save someone's life
The one who told you
About how she loved airports
So much she would fly
Who believed she could
Be a pilot, reporter,
and a researcher
The one who went on
For pages about mangroves
And the local reef
Who loved the world so
With all of its things to do
In such finite time
Who stood mesmerized
Over Miami's night lights
In a hotel room
The little girl who
Made an essay's outline in
Her polkadot book
The one who said she
Hated when her sister took
The hotel bed's sheets
The girl who dreamt of
Her eleventh birthday, so
She could be a witch
The one who knew that
She wasn't entirely
Regular or sane
Who wrote of her mom
Who threatened to burn you if
She kept on writing
Who wrote of her dad
And mom arguing in both
Private and public
Who was afraid of
"Inappropriate" things, since
Her parents said so
The one who told you
That she had no other friends
On her school's blacktop
The one who panicked
When she got less than eighty
For any test score
The one who knew she
Could never tell the grown-ups
Just how bad she felt
The one who vowed that
If MPs and psych wards came
She would kick and scream
Well I'm starting to
Because she was right here for
My entire life
I found my old diary from when I was ten years old. Seven years of learning, and "bisnuse" might still be my best manual spelling of that word yet.