Dear Mr Cash.

A letter that was a semi finalist in a local "write to author" contest

 

Dear Mr. Cash,

 

            Never in my life has one family, besides my own, influenced me in such a way as your mother and father, June Carter and Johnny Cash. Your father, with his deep baritone voice, taught me that there are some people worse off than I. He was almost a father figure to me. When I doubted my own father, I would look at the giant Johnny Cash poster I have in my room, and somehow, I felt better. I felt like whatever was wrong with me at the time would go away. It may be a difficult journey, I would say to myself, but it will go away.

            I never knew much about your mother except the fact that she had a great comforting, motherly voice. When you wrote, An Intimate Portrait of June Carter Cash, I knew it was going to have your father, Johnny, in it so naturally, I bought it. From the time I got it home, my mother couldn’t pry the book out of my hands with a crowbar even if she tried. I never realized how much your mother was like my own mother, it put a whole new perspective on the the Cash family in my eyes.

            It was at the end of reading your book when my cat, Hawk, became deathly ill. He was already 18 years old and diabetic, and we couldn’t get his insulin right; he would change every hour it seemed. After two weeks of constant vet visits, my mother decided it was time to put the cat down. The day my cat died was February 26, 2008, your father’s birthday. I was already depressed that day at the 76^th birthday your dad wasn’t going to have. The minute I walked in the kitchen that cold morning, the first words my mother said was, “Hawk died last night.” I wanted to die. Before she could say anything else, I ran to my room and started blaring “Home of the Blues.”

            My rage was uncontrollable. I had never been so angry before.  I tore my beloved Johnny Cash poster, and broke his famous “Live at Folsom Prison” record. Just as I was looking at the damage I had done, I saw your book on my bed. Your mother’s hair lay over her shoulder, and she sported a beautiful smile with perfect white teeth, eyes open and alert. I calmed down; it was almost as if she had her hand on my shoulder. All I could hear was “everything will be okay.” I wasn’t sure whose voice it was, but it made me feel better. I laid on my bed, pausing a minute to take in the next song which was “Jackson.” I opened the book, and started reading where I left off at the end.

            As I read your descriptive words about the death of your mother, I shared your grief. No, I didn’t lose my mother, but I still lost something important to me. Hawk was my buddy, my companion. We were like Jack and J.R, close and happy, and we felt like siblings even if he was a cat.  Your words about your mother helped me get over my pet’s death, and I knew life would go on. 

            The words you spoke about your father brought back a flood of memories about how I grieved your father’s death on that grim day, September 12, 2003. When the book was over, I flipped back to the pages where you talked about the time after your mother’s funeral; it helped me get over my sadness about your father’s death again.

            Thanks to you Mr. Cash, whenever something upsetting happens, I read your book again. If I’m sad, I’ll flip to a page where you talk about happier times. If someone dies, I’ll flip back to the end after your mother’s death. Or if I’m just feeling like I’m the only one in the world with nobody to talk to, I’ll either read your book, or talk to my newly repaired Johnny Cash poster. No, a poster can’t talk back, but your book can. Thanks again Mr. Cash, your book speaks to me in its own special way.

 

Sincerely

 

 

 

Miranda Brooks

 

 

Author's Note

yea, this isn't really a story, but I really like how I wrote this lol XD