80 years ago, I put a letter to myself in a time capsule. I had half-heartedly asked myself about my future- about where I’d go in life. I knew I wouldn't receive it, but not because I’d be old and quite possibly rotting away in a nursing home. I knew I wouldn't make it beyond highschool, at least not very far, and definitely not past 90.

At the time I wrote the letter I was ten years old. I hadn't had a hard childhood, I simply had a boring one. I felt unfulfilled and isolated, although I did my best to appear as though I felt fulfilled. But at school I was never anything of a story, just a passing thought to my classmates and teachers.

I did my best to have a good image to my teachers and peers, to be remembered as a good person but I don't think they even remembered me at all.

I sat near my peers as we wrote letters in bright colored crayons. Scratching on that letter to me with the oily crayon my hand shook. I never made up false promises but this letter was filled with them.

The paper felt thin under my hands, like a sickly delicate lily. My crayon stitched my handwriting into the paper like red threads.

I remember Junior High when I sat in that room. Canceling my plans with a date. I went to bed, my covers warm and pressing onto my frail body.

The school opened the capsule, leaving the letter at my grave alongside the roses that etched their roots around my grave. The red crayon melted onto the grass as rain soaked the letter into the ground, staining the lilies red.