Mr. Nyegard, my sixth grade teacher, sat with me in the hallway just outside of our classroom.  I had written a story for class about a young girl who had a horse named Wildfire.  I’d gotten the name from one of my favorite songs:

"Oh they say she died one winter
When there came a chilling frost
And the pony she named Wildfire
Busted down his stall
In a blizzard he was lost
She ran calling Wildfire"

In my story, Wildfire breaks out of his stall during a storm, and the girl must try to find him.  Mr. Nyegard told me, “You could be a writer if you wanted to.  You could be anything you want to be.”  He was sitting in a bright red, child-sized chair, knees pushed up into his chest, leaning towards me with his eyes wide, gesturing his hands wildly at the future he wanted me to be able to see.  He believed in my potential and encouraged me to believe also.  I was desperate to believe him, to believe such a thing about myself—the girl who sweated too much, had warts, cried herself to sleep, and loved books more than anything.  I had trouble internalizing his faith as my own, but I held tight to the memory, turning it over and around in my mind and watching the way the light would catch it. 

© Salahub 2003