For almost thirteen years now, I’ve been getting letters in the mail from kids. These missives are honest (“I didn’t really like your book, but my teacher said I had to write you a letter anyway”), heartfelt (“I know how Opal feels. I have had to be the new kid in town.”), funny (“Hey, I keep on meaning to tell you that they have made a movie out of one of your books. You should see if you can look at it.”) and engaging (“I want to tell you some things about myself. But there is so much about me that is interesting, that I don’t know where to start.”)
The letters make me laugh and cry and think. They make me feel connected.
One of the first letters I ever received was from a ten-year old girl who lived in Louisiana. She told me that she kept Because of Winn-Dixie on her nightstand. She said that if she woke up in the middle night and felt afraid, she would turn on the light and read from the book for a while, until she felt “safe and warm” and then she would go back to sleep.
That little girl would be a grown up now.
I wonder if she knows I still think of her.
I wonder if she knows what a gift she gave to me.

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