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Dear Willie,
I am so sorry for what my friends and I used to do to you. I'll never ever forgive myself. We were nine and you were about seven, and your sister would have been about five.
I think about you sometimes, how you would pull your little sister around the neighborhood in a broken rusty wagon, all day long in the summer time. I think about the big creepy broken-down and haunted-looking house you lived in, and how we never ever saw your parents, only the beat-up ancient 1950s junker in the driveway. I think about how you and your little sister looked like urchins or orphans from the 1930s with messy hair and unwashed faces, dressed in raggedy old clothes, even though this was the mid-70s and all us 'regular' kids had trendy jeans and t-shirts and Adidas running shoes.
I think about how your voice sounded all sad and slow, like the donkey Eyore from Winnie the Pooh. I think about how your little sister would scream "Leave my big brother alone!" at me and my friends as we chased you down and slapped your face until you cried or surrounded you and shot little plastic BBs from our corner-store spy pistols into your face, every single time we met you.
I think about the look of anger and horror on the face of that lady in her car who drove by one day as we ran off laughing after slapping you silly. I never bothered you again after I saw that lady look at me that way. But I never apologized.
I'm so sorry, Willie. I hope you are still alive. I hope you and your little sister have had wonderful lives and never ever had to deal with people like my friends and I hurting you ever again.
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