Dear 6-Year-Old Mette
I look at photos of you and I think about how long it will be before anyone every tells you that you’re beautiful. There are a lot of years to wait. You are so awkward and for many years have those giant teeth sticking out of your mouth, which your parents tell you is because you sucked your thumb for so long, that embarrassing thing that everyone in your family teased you about until they praised you (briefly) for stopping. Though it didn’t really stop, did it? Just transformed into something else.
You began to tell people this year that you were going to be a writer. I try sometimes to remember what it was that made you so sure of this. The feeling that you got when you read stories? The sense of awe that others expressed about writers? Or was it the sense of control when you were able to create worlds and the creatures in them. For many years, you only wrote about dragons and giants and other mythical creatures, not sure how to understand humans. But really, you were always writing about yourself, about the pain of being so alone, so often, in a crowded house full of noise.
You were small and fierce. You would not let anyone stop you doing anything you set your mind to. But you tried so hard to be good. No, to be perfect. Nothing was ever enough. And everything was always your fault. You carried the burdens of a dozen adults on those small shoulders. And you never complained about it. You smiled and found the good in so much. You thought so hard, in circles sometimes. And you woke up every morning, ready to fight the day and to prove yourself.
I think you were a little genie in a bottle. You didn’t need to grow up. Growing up was boring. Growing up was stupid. You were determined to stay a child, and to make sure that you never forgot what it meant to be teased and bullied, and to not care about any of it, so long as you had your book friends. They were the ones who were good enough, and so you carried them with you always.