Dear Imaginary Friend
by Nina Hahn
Remember when
we got up the moment a finger of light crept through our white
lacy curtains? When we sat on the maroon couch,
our hair tangled like fishing lines, in John Deere pajamas,
watching old Spiderman cartoons and sucking on sweet, cinnamon-y cereal?
When we built forts in the basement out of
tents and chairs and blankets and imagination? When
the smell of pancakes, sweet and toasty, wafted from the old black stove?
When Mom drove us to the library, or we rode our bikes there,
and the library was still magical? When we went to the park--the one with the tire swing
and the scary wobbly wooden bridge, and the park
was the best place on Earth? When we got chocolate ice cream on cones
and the bigger the scoops, the bigger our smiles, the smaller our worries?
When school was fun and safe and
home? When we played with our friend in the yard but
only in the yard, where the rest of the world looked grand and we were eager
for the day we’d be old enough to leave the yard?
Remember when winter wasn’t sad?
Remember when eating wasn’t so complicated?
When emotions only grew as deep as strawberry roots?
When loneliness was only a myth?
Remember when our lives were precious?
Remember?
Do you remember?
I can’t remember, either.