This is for Andrew. Happy birthday!
I am at a total loss for any words that I feel I could actually say. The ones I think of don't even come close. I'm supposed to be a writer, and yet you seem so hard to define. Why is that? Why can't I write about one of the things I am most certain of? How come I can't think of anything meaningful that even skims the surface of accuracy? Why is that?
Andrew is so different. Maybe that's why he's hard to write about. He's not like the average American 16 (!!!) year old guy, and anyone that knows him would have to agree with me. He notices the outsiders and welcomes them. He sees the lost and loves them with a zeal I would die to have. He is living proof that chivalry isn't dead. He has his moments, but at the same time he is the sort of person that inspires me to be better. Everyone is going to say I'm biased, and maybe it's true, but you would kill for a friend like Andrew.
Now, as I get closer and closer to not posting this on your birthday as I'd planned, I have only one thing to say. Thank you so much.
Mara Tenille Dickens
The butterfly child