I can’t tell you exactly what the fight had been about. Or why I wrote the angry letter, the bottom right corner missing. My small clumsy hands ripped it from the green notebook’s spine. I do remember my face being a higher temperature than my hands, the salty water slipping from my swollen eyes and onto my tongue, smearing the paper, ink staining my skin. Now, a wrinkled paper hangs framed, above my dad´s desk.
I remember that my feet peeled up the carmel staircase, passing the kitchen I stood in front of the mirror. My eyes saw someone. She looked as though she had held her breath for a record breaking amount of time. I traced the edge of the frame, picking off the golden paint. I continued to walk until I reached the second door on the left. I slid the damp, crumpled paper under it and ran to the front door. Grabbing my red mickey mouse backpack, I made my way past the grey wooden mailbox, which had 117 engraved on the sides. The air, which left goose bumps on my skin, was uninviting. I looked back to my house, now a block away. I sat on the curb, the one where I had lemonade stands, when it was warm enough to wear shorts. My bare skin changed color. I looked back home. When I forgot what I was mad about, I made my way back. My dad stood at the door, his mouth twitched and the corners of his eyes creased. He looked like he was about to laugh.
"Hi Missy," he said.
I did my best to give him my meanest look.
"Oh, right, we're angry at each other," he said.
A small laugh escaped from my lips. We sat on the couch, it’s faded leather was warm, and he took out the now dry note. In his other hand a wine colored copy of Webster's dictionary, the edges wise with many years of running through it.The cedar pages kept their own scent. He flipped to the 18th letter in the alphabet.
"You didn't ruin our lives," he said.
“But you did spell ruined wrong,” he added.
We walked over to the living room.
My mom’s laugh chimed throughout the living room, she then scanned the letter. We spent the rest of the night reading the words that followed ruined and my parents would act them out. From then on, a huge yellow Officemax post-it hung on my room´s door. Every night we would add a word.
I do not remember the first book I read, or my first flash fiction piece. I do vividly remember this, when a mistake turned into a childhood long habit.  As much as I'd like to have those pieces, these were the ones I held onto the most. I learned to keep making mistakes, and fixing them, and maybe even make habit of mistake making messes. I don’t know how else I would’ve learned. If it hadn't been for that spelling error, I wouldn't of become obsessed with reading, looking to find new words. I began to gather a coalition of my favorite words, including: meander, bewildered, tangible.Even if some were deemed inappropriate by my parents later being banned from the word door. This actually led to some very uncomfortable conversations when I first read the Twilight Series. Nor would I have had the opportunity of coming in at number 64 (out of 68 participants, thanks mom for still clapping) in my elementary school spelling bee.
So, I guess in a way this spelling error opened my eyes to a world where it was fine to make mistakes. As long as we carried some white out and an eraser, and continue making them. I wasn't going to learn how to spell ruined from my brother´s runaway letter.