A letter to the puckerbrush.

Dear Professor Hunting,

Last night, for reasons unknown, I began to search the internet for an email address where I could contact you. It's been six years, and I knew that you'd probably not remember me, but I'd wanted the opportunity to tell you how much you and our Creative Writing class influenced who I am today. I'd wanted to tell you how your wry wit and soft voice captivated me in the classroom and how you'd forced me - and the rest of the students in my class - to look into parts of myself where my basest humanity nests and grows. I'd wanted to say that two of my thesis committee members commented on how well I write and that my thesis was a pleasure to read, and that I feel as though you had a great part in that. I'd wanted to tell you how your offer to accept a poem I'd written for publication in your press made me feel more alive than I'd felt in all of my life up until that point, and how declining your offer is one of my biggest regrets. I'd wanted to tell you that creative writing is what sustains me when little else will.


I'd wanted to say all of these things, but you died last year.


So, instead, I will whisper my thanks to the bitter winds and hope that they carry them to the tattered, late-winter puckerbrush where I know you live still.

With regards and profound gratitude,

Domonic Potorti
UMaine Class of '02