Words.

soon as we got home from the

library, she dug up her dads
ancient Smith Corona manual
typewriter and settled it on the
desk in my little basement room.
Here you go Andy, she had said.
You want to write? Write.

Mellifluous.
Hiraeth.
Petrichor.
Limerence.
Words are important. Vital.
They change things. They create
things.
Sometimes, they even destroy
things.
Ive been fascinated
words since I was a kid.

with

Enamored.
Captivated.
When I was eight years old,
my mom entered me into a young
contest that was sponsored by the
local library in our small town of
Dale, Colorado. When they meant
young writer, they probably
should have said young adult,
because everyone else who came
to sign up was either in middle
school or high school. Thats the
thing with words: you need to
make your meaning clear or things
may not go as planned.
Other times, however,
words make all the difference.

the

Anyway, the overwhelming

presence of teenagers in the room
didnt stop my mother at all As

I did want to write, and my

parents both knew it. See, I was
practically born for words. By three
years old, I had breezed through
most of Mary Pope Osbornes The
Magic Tree House series and had
moved on to my dads old Boxcar
Children books. I loved to read
more than most kids love ice cream
and cartoons at that age. By the
time I hit first better than most kids
twice my age, and so I skipped a
grade. Skipping a grade isnt like
learning to ride your bike; its a big
deal, and its not as simple as you
think. Besides, though my reading
and writing skills might have been
pretty
impressive,
my
math
knowledge went about as far as
Sally had two apples and Matt
gave her three more: how many
apples does sally have now? I
pretty much sucked at math then,
and I still sucked at it well into high
school.
So there I was, eight years old
and competing against several kids
twice my age who had sat through
classes upon classes more than I

had and learned much more than I

had.

me do my thing. I loved my mom

with all my heart for it.

I didnt win. No, first prize was

awarded to some sixteen-year-old
girl who wrote (in my opinion) an
overly cheesy love story about
some girl with a terminal illness. It
was clich, sure, but I learned then
the difference between words we
wanted to say and words other
people wanted to hear.

Being a year younger than

everyone else in my class was
especially tough on a kid like me.
More times than I could count, I
showed up in the kitchen after
school, Star Wars lunch box in
tow, tears tracking my dirt-stained
cheeks after being pushed down by
the bigger kids yet again. My mom
always sank down to her knees
beside me and held me gently until
I stopped crying, stroking my hair
lovingly with one hand, the other
wrapped warmly around my back.
She worked nights as a waitress at
the truck stop while studying to
become a nurse, so she was always
available to me during the day. No
matter what I needed, she would
stop whatever she was doing to
help me. I thought nothing would
ever separate us: my mothers love
made me, an awkward, petrified
little kid, feel invisible.

Though I didnt actually win, I

did come in third place with my
poem about being afraid of the
dark. Not being afraid of the
darkness itself, but of the absence
of it. When I was a kid, nighttime
was magical for me; during the
night, I got to dream. Our family
didnt have much money when I
was growing up, and I was my own
source of entertainment. I wrote of
my love of my dreams, and of the
darkness that carried themand it
got me twenty-five dollars cash and
a
brand-new
leather
bound
notebook, the only new thing I had
ever owned at the time.
Once my mom discovered my
skill with words, she did everything
she could to promote it. She
brought books by the dozens (an
impressive feat, given our financial
situation), made sure I always had
pen and paper handy, and probably
most important to me, they just let

I will never forget the morning

of June third of my sixth grade
summer. My curfew, a strictly
enforced ordeal, was 8:30 on
summer
nights.
The
evening
before, my best friend Rick, my
neighbor Nova and I were hanging
out at the little five-lane bowling
alley on the other side of town
(youll hear more about them
later). 8:30 came and went without

us realizing it. When I finally

arrived home an hour and a half
late, my parents had been waiting
for me in the living room, both
wearing
pretty
damning
expressions. I was right to bed with
a promise that they would decide
a fit punishment in the morning.
I didnt get much sleep that
night. Coming home at 10:00 had
the potential to have me grounded
for a whole month. Being grounded
for a month in the summer is like
receiving
a
forty-year
prison
sentence; you never know whats
going to have changed when you
get out. Your friends might desert
you. The girl you like might move
away. I simply couldnt let that
happen to me. So naturally, I did
the one other thing that came to
me as easily as writing:
I lied.
Lies are like spare change to a
writer. We collect them, we
exchange them, and we bury them
in our closets and behind our bed.
They dont usually hurt anyone and
no one notices them until they pile
up and up and up. Heres some
advice about lying: never involve
adults in your lies and make them
vague as possible. If someone can
retrace your steps through a lie,
youll never get anywhere.

I broke both of my own rules

the next morning. I told my mom
that we had been on our way home
when Rick fell off his skateboard
and busted his arm badly. I told her
that I had sat with him on the
sidewalk until someone drove by
who had a cell phone so we could
call Ricks mom. I told her that I
waited with Rick until his mom had
shown up and then hurried home
after my friend was safely bundled
into the car and on his way to the
next town over, which had a little
ER clinic.
My mom believed it at first,
every word. She gave me a hug
and apologized for doubting me,
and told me I was a wonderful
young man for being so valiant. I
felt sick to my stomach with shame
but I didnt dare admit that it was a
lie.
As fate would have it, Ricks
mom called later that day to invite
my mom to some ladies luncheon.
When my mom asked about how
Ricks arm was, all hell broke loose.
When the dust settled, I wasnt
grounded for a month. I wasnt
grounded for two. I was grounded
for the whole summer, a veritable
life sentence to an eleven-year-old.
My life was ruined. I was as good
as a ghost if I didnt make at least
a couple friends before moving into
Gerald Ford Memorial Junior. That

was the one thing I hated about

skipping a grade: making friends
was all the tougher.

until one of the officers escorted

him to the couch and sat him
down.

I stomped down to my room,

furious, slamming the door behind
me. Without a second thought, I
jammed a fresh piece of paper into
my Smith Corona and punched out
the two sentences that I regret the
most in my entire life:

She was gone. Id never see

those smiling eyes again. Never
feel those arms wrapped around
me. I felt truly alone for the first
time in my short life. I instantly
forgot about getting in trouble the
day before. Nothing mattered
anymore.

I hate my mom! I wish she

would die!
Words are important.
Without words, there would be
no way to convey the absolute,
crippling despair that tore apart my
heart when the police showed up
on our doorstep the next morning,
just over an hour after mom left for
work.
Someone had fallen asleep at
the wheel and veered into her lane
on her way to the hospital to work.
The firemen said her death was
instantaneous; so was mine, in that
moment.
I hadnt spoken to her before
she left for work. I was still mad at
my parents for grounding me, even
after moping in bed half the night. I
was even madder at myself for
getting caught but it was easier to
use my mom as the object of my
frustration. My dad stood in the
doorway, ashen-faced in disbelief,

Despondency.
Grief.
Anguish.
In a way, I still was grounded
for the summer, because after the
funeral, I didnt leave my room
until
school
started
that
September. That day, I stood in
front of my desk and stared at my
Smith Corona typewriter, tears
streaming endlessly down my face
as I wished harder than I had ever
wished before, that I could turn
back time.
Words are important. And my
last words to my protector and my
comforter were of hate. I slid the
typewriter, along with a little,
wallet-sized photograph of my
mom into a cardboard box and put
it in the corner of my closet. I didnt
write a single word that summer. In
fact, I wouldnt have written a

single word for the rest of my life if

it werent for school.
Things
happen
constantly
around us, things that we cant
control. A nagging voice seemed to
never ever allow me to believe my
moms death wasnt completely
and unequivocally my fault. I
learned violently that the words we
choose
have
an
effect
on
ourselves, an upon those who
surround us.
Words are important.

Vital.
Essential.
They change things. Every
single little word, written or
spoken, must be chosen carefully.
There can be no mistakes.
I never imagined that, after
choosing to shun my own love of
words, the words of another would
gradually, gently begin to breathe
some life back into my devastated
heart.