When I was young, I watched cartoons and movies where squiggly lines were words. ­Obviously, it was just a representation of writing, but I believed in it. I wrote pages upon pages of little etched lines, thinking I was a genius. I thought words were easy. For a brief while, I thought I was the Keats of kindergarten.

And you, in your dress of a past age, raven-haired and clumsily magnificent, told me I was wrong. You said, simply, “Words aren't just lines, they have to mean something.” And I cried, and screamed, and grew red like a balloon. I knew I couldn't be wrong. You are trying to ruin or ­stifle or crush me, I thought. And I was angry for a solid week. Until, slowly, as always, I realized you held the key. You were right – words have to mean something. I felt so deceived by the crafty cartoons, the lying lines that meant nothing. I never admitted defeat, but you knew.

And now, words don't just mean something; they're my everything.

I want you to know that. Eleven years gone, your memory is a faded ruby in the necklace of my life. When I think of you, the sun of your existence grows less hot with clouds of time. But you should know now, in a corner of my heart, there are squiggly lines that only you can read.