He was the boy with matted brown hair and bright blue eyes who sat alone on that solitary bench almost every day that summer. He was picking at the guitar planted firmly in his lap and there were pieces of scribbled note paper strewn all around him. I asked what he was doing and he said he was writing a song. I asked for whom and he said, “I don’t know yet but it’s for when I meet the perfect girl”. He was searching for that secret combination of twenty-six letters that would make her at least think of him now and then. And maybe someday even call him hers.