Dear Neil, the Poet,

I wish we had met at a different time, two junior high nerds, north ends of two magnets. I was ripe to be picked, to be popular, to be known for my sexy bopping, not for the science fair project crawling with crustaceans in the Smithsonian. Then the politician’s son, slick, eager to trade one blonde for another, repossessed his chain, his turquoise and silver Diné ring from the neck of another disposable girl, to possess me. I’d crossed a boundary, gained worth by his ownership, refused to see the shallow charade. That night, his ring heavy around my neck, I stared at your poem and flowers on my dresser, placed by Mom so I would see them when I arrived home.

Dear Neil, the poet, how did you feel when Mom made me call to thank you for the bouquet that must have set a junior high kid back months of odd jobs? When I told you I was going steady, didn’t mention your poem as if it were of no worth? I ignored the wrongness then, refused to think of your pain, could only feel the cold silver against my chest.

Dear Neil, the poet, I wish you happiness and grandchildren and a wife who loves poems and flowers. But if this missive finds you at a time of openness, can you forgive that young girl of long ago, now a woman with fifty years of regret she’d gladly trade for flowers and a lost poem?

Prompt:  A letter I never wrote. It may have been Neal and last name may have been Brown? If you know him, please convey my apology.