Dear Peter Pan

Dear Peter,
I'm seven years old. I believe in fairies and mermaids, and I like to pretend I am Wendy. I want to go to Neverland too. Will you take me one day? I don't want to grow up either, and I know how to sew. If you ever lose your shadow again, I can fix it for you.

Dear Peter,
I'm eight years old. I thought I saw Tinkerbell outside my window last night, but it was just a moth. So I stared out my window and searched for the second star to the right until I fell asleep. I'm still waiting for my turn to go to Neverland, I'm sure it is wild and beautiful there.

Dear Peter,
I'm nine years old. I used to have a nightgown that looked like Wendy's, but I can't find it anymore. I played in the snow today, does it snow in Neverland? Playing in the snow is fun, but I like coming inside and drinking hot chocolate with mommy to warm me up. I think I would miss that if I went to Neverland.

Dear Peter,
I'm ten years old. Today, mom told about growing up and changing from a girl, to a woman. I don't know if I want that to happen. Sometimes I feel like Wendy, and I want to grow up and have children of my own. But then the thought of growing up scares me. If you could grow up, would it scare you?

Dear Peter,
I'm thirteen years old, why haven't you come to take me to Neverland? I used to think every little sound at night was you tapping on my window. Now I sleep all night and never hear a thing. Are fairies really real? I'm changing a lot. I don't look like a little girl any more. Would you be scared of me the way you were scared of Wendy when she grew up?

Dear Peter,
I'm sixteen. And I don't care anymore. I'm mad that you never came for me. You forgot me, Peter. I wonder if I could find Neverland on my own. But that would mean flying, and I can't fly. It's not possible.

Dear Peter,
I'm eighteen now. One night, a year or two ago, I don't remember when, I cried because I realized you were never going to come for me. I'm sorry Peter, but I grew up. I didn't mean to, but I did. Soon I'll be ever so much more than twenty, with children of my own. And you will be scared of me, won't you? I will be like Wendy, with a sad, sad smile, watching for you by the window. But I don't think you will cry for me, like you did for Wendy. You forgot me. It's alright. I know you didn't mean it. You didn't mean to forget, I didn't mean to grow up. I'm sorry, Peter.

Dear Reader,
Perhaps you feel the same as I do. That you grew up, and wished you hadn't. Perhaps you are lucky enough to still hear Peter tapping at the window. If you are grown up, come close to me, and hold my hand. We will stare at the cold heavens together and wait for Peter to come for our children. And if you are still a child yourself…well then. If you ever happen to see Peter, tell him 'Hello' for me. Although, I don't think he will remember me. He will have forgotten, again, just like he always does.