Talking

Throughout my childhood, I walked with a child, the pregnancy lost the year before I was born, a sister I assumed. I talked to her, told her stories, helped her cross the street, reassured her. I had various names for her, none consistent, none that I can remember. She stayed a little girl always, finally leaving for good when I got into my twenties.

Sitting in class, all through school, I fantasized that my brothers would show up at school and take me out for the day. We'd go to the park, or for a drive, nothing big, just away. Dave was in the Air Force, joined when I was seven, posted far away until I was out of high school. Bill was gone the next year, to college then joined a commune, tramped across the states, then Europe and Asia. I missed the idea of them, wanted them to be more to me, had no other potential rescuers. No one to listen or care.

In college, I had a woman transported through time from when the Old Main building at the university was new, pre turn of the century. I explained the world to her, allayed her shock and disorientation, admired her courage for being a woman in college at that time. She slowly became less appalled at my brazenness.

I talk with Moira in the car on the way home quite often. I miss her daily friendship, but I never put words in her head, only know that she will listen, and understand.

I am still that child alone, craving both privacy and companionship, in equal measure.