Coene the Kid

So my mother is moving into a new house. As with any big move, she’s been going through some boxes—some of which contain stuff from my childhood. Some of this stuff amused her, so she sent it to my inbox.

 

She found a piece of paper, on which she had scrawled something I’d said when I was five:

“Things that go too much fast, they get lost.”

Ernest, eat your heart out.

 

She also found some notes from my fifth grade teacher (with whom, I should add, I am currently friends on Facebook):

“He enjoys free writing time very much.”

And:

“I continue to be very concerned about Mike’s lack of organization.”

This was before I’d earned, through sprouting beard, the right to be called Michael. And I stopped being concerned about seeing my bedroom’s floor a long, long time ago.

 

Lastly, she found this elegant little plea, written in what continues to be my penmanship:

Anyway, just thought it was kinda interesting and funny. Definitely confirms that being a writer is a child, not a choice—or, well, you know what I mean.