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Love Letters

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                                                                 Love Letters
                                                                                                                     
Dear Angel,                                                                                                 September 8, 2015
I remember how we used to sit near the fire together at the orphanage. I would talk and you would laugh. Even though we weren’t in the happiest place in the world I felt happy since I was with you. The day that those Americans came, or should I say my future adoptive parents, I had battling emotions. Now I’m thousands of miles away from you. I still feel our last hug and the tears trailing down my cheeks. You reciprocated the same emotions that I had, happy for me and sad at the same time. I miss you. I’m still holding on to our promise that this isn’t goodbye. You will always be with me in the magic of my heart.
Love,
Daniel
                                                                                                                
Dear Angel,                                                                                             5 November, 2015
How’s school going? I can’t believe we’re both fourteen years old already. Has the weather gotten cold yet? I have to say that I miss the chilly streets in London. In New York it’s very cold, but the coldness in New York feels different than London’s. I don’t know how to explain it. It just feels different.  Our English teacher is giving us creative writing assignments in school. I really like them. I like writing. It makes me happy. When I write, I’m able to release my emotions. It’s like you with sketching roses. And I know that you may be rolling your eyes and laughing when you read this, but I’m serious.
Here’s one of them. It’s called, “The Dancing Star”:
The darkness of the night sweeps through the land trying to shut out all the light, but it doesn’t succeed.  The dancing star twirls and sweeps all the shadows away. It shines bright. It’s the glory of the night. The star beckons for me to join the dance but when daylight comes, I’m left to wonder if it was all just a dream.
I know it’s not that good, but I’m doing it for fun. I look forward to English class all day. I resent recess and lunch though. These American kids make a point to make fun of me and my accent. I sadly stand out in the crowd, which is why bullies are attracted to me. Some kids try to be nice to me but if I say a certain word, they start to laugh. They fall on the ground holding their stomachs. While they do that, I think of how they would be the laughing stock in London. Don’t they realize that their accents are funny to us too? I don’t laugh in their faces though because that’s rude. Angel, I hope you are well in London. I often wonder when we’ll be able to see each other again. Until then, my dearest friend, we’ll always be together with the magic in our hearts.
Love,
Daniel
                                                                                                                         
Dear Diary,                                                                                                        12 November, 2015
My new parents are not letting me write to Angel until I start making friends. I haven’t had much luck with that. Most of the children in my school are mean and obnoxious. I’ve made up my mind none of them are nice, only the ones that are socially awkward. And why do I say this? Because they’re the only ones who don’t make fun of me. I even tried begging some of the bullies and socially awkward kids to be my friends. What can I say? I’m desperate. The bullies laughed and obviously said ‘no’ to my face. The socially awkward kids looked at me weirdly and left. I feel so alone. No one talks to me. No one laughs with me. There’s no one to share my feelings with. How I wish Angel was with me! To make myself feel better, I imagine that she is with me wherever I go. Even when I look out the window at night, I imagine she’s here with me looking at the stars. She sits next to me in English, too. With the magic in my heart, she’s always here with me.

                                                                                                                       
Dear Diary,                                                                                                        26 November, 2015

Here is a new story that I wrote called, “The Lost Flower”:

A boy searched and searched inside of a forest.  He searched high and low but could not find what he was looking for. Then a tree stopped the boy and asked, “Boy? What are you looking for?”
“My flower,” answered the boy. 
The tree smiled and said proudly, “I am the tallest tree in the forest. I see many things, but not all. I know an old wise bird that can help you. He knows every detail of this forest. For he had flown and saw it all. I am a tree I am stuck in one place.”
“Where can I find this bird?” asked the boy.
“Keep on going north until you see a lake. He sits on a branch overlooking the lake.” The boy left on his journey. He walked through muck and leaves. When the boy got there, he saw the bird perched on the branch just like the tree said he would be. The boy approached him and asked, “Dear wise bird, I have been directed here by the tallest tree. I seek your help.”
“What are you looking for?” asked the bird.
“I am looking for my flower,” said the boy.
“What does it look like?”
The boy stood up straight and said, “My flower has a dark green stem with big, beautiful leaves. The petals are golden and it has the shape of a rose.”
The bird answered the boy, “I am old and wise indeed. I have flown through every part of the forest. Your flower does not exist.”
“You are right,” said the boy. “You helped me find my flower. It lives in my imagination and takes root in my heart.”

                                                                                                                       
Dear Diary,                                                                                                  30 November, 2015
I still couldn’t convince my parents to let me write to Angel.  At night I’m left to thinking how she’s doing. She wrote to me a few times but stopped because my new parents told her to. I haven’t spoken to her in a month. Sometimes I have nightmares that she’s in some sort of danger. I wake up with my heart pounding in my chest. Even in English class her image seems to be waning. One day we will be reunited again. I will scale each mountain to find my precious flower. When I reread the stories I’ve written, the only thing I see in them is her. I miss my Angel…she is the only one who understands me. My only friend.
My heart clutches on to the remaining images of her magical smile.

                                                                                                                         
Dear Diary,                                                                                                  6 December, 2015
I’m not feeling well. I have been in bed for a week with a high fever. My new parents are worried about me. They think I’m home sick. Which is kind of true. The only thing I really miss in London is Angel. I heard them speaking about booking a trip to London with me. I doubt that we might go. I’m most likely going to be stuck in America for a while. Who knows the next time I’m going to see Angel.

I also wrote a new poem:

I walk over the dead grass looking for my monster.
The one that claws at my heart.
The one that doesn’t let me sleep at night.
The one that makes my eyes white and cheeks hollow.
The one that holds me back from her.
The monster that I will catch and kill.
On my path I bump into a huge grey, brick wall.
Yet another obstacle in my way.
I wipe the sweat from my brow and to my surprise I find a long rope hanging down from the wall.
I grab it and climb. Half way up, the rope starts to rip.
I hold on for dear life. How long will I have to hold on?
How long will I be stuck?
Will the monster be able to escape?
No. No it won’t.
There are no winners in this sad game we play.

                                                                                                                       
Dear Diary,                                                                                                  30 December, 2015   
On December the twelfth my parents and I went to London. They decided that we should visit because of my withering health. As soon as we got there, a huge snow storm hit. We went to a hotel and checked in. While waiting in the hotel, I was filled with anticipation. We were supposed to visit the orphanage right after we landed, but the weather changed our plans. I couldn’t wait to see Angel. It seemed as if the last time we saw each other was years ago. Once we got to our hotel room, I walked over to the window. White snow littered the ground. While some people would be happy watching the snow and some would be sad because of the cold weather, I was terrified. As I watched each snow flake flutter onto the ground, a new horror engulfed me. Anxiety crawled into my chest and made it hard for me to breathe. I shook my head, something was terribly wrong. I felt it in my bones. I felt it in my blood. I turned around slowly. My parents looked at me fearfully.
“Daniel, honey are you okay?” asked my new mum, softly.
I couldn’t answer her because I was already running out of the room and into the snow storm. The snow wasn’t too high as I ran through it.  My bewildered parents were right behind my tracks. They didn’t understand what was going on with me. No one would understand. I passed trees, cars, shops and buildings on my way. I ran until I made it to two big bushes which stood in front of a building. The cold, naked branches scratched me as I went in between them and pulled a pale, unconscious girl out of the snow. I held her in my trembling arms. She was freezing. Snow was dripping out of her auburn hair. My parents saw me pull her out and called the ambulance.
I found myself in the ambulance sitting on a chair next to the white bed where my dear Angel lay. On the way to the hospital I heard little bits and pieces of how Angel disappeared earlier that day. She asked one of her teachers if she could go to one of the shops and buy something for a fellow student since it was her birthday. Her teacher said yes but she had to hurry back. Angel left and never came back. They think she tripped over ice on her way back and hit her head. No one was there to assist her when the snowstorm started and everyone was home by then. She lay there as the snow covered her, one flake at a time. I sat by Angel’s side for hours after we came into the hospital until she opened her eyes. She was very confused when she saw me. She thought it was a dream. One of her teachers who was with us told her what had happened, and she realized she wasn’t dreaming. She sat up in her bed, shivering.
“You were missing for hours we were contemplating whether to call the police and he miraculously found you.”
Angel looked at me with pleading eyes. She opened her arms. I walked up to her and hugged her.
“I’ve missed you Angel.” I whispered into her ear.
“I’ve missed you, too,” she cried. I held her tighter.
After Angel calmed down, she asked, “How did you find me?”
“I don’t know. It must have been magic.” I said.
I spent the whole week with Angel. My parents realized there was no point in keeping us separated so my new mum asked her best friend to adopt Angel and she agreed. Angel and I came to America hand in hand. Now she sits next to me in English class and watches the stars with me at night. I laugh as I think that Angel is going to read through this diary just like the others in the orphanage.  How did we get from there to here? It must have been magic.






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