Remembering Sarah
(I found it, lizzy_copycat)
For a period of few months when I was three years old, I had an imaginary friend named Sarah. Sarah was with me everywhere. When I got my nightly bath, my mom had to bathe Sarah, too. When I was buckled into the car, Sarah was buckled in as well. When my mom kissed me goodnight, Sarah also had to be kissed goodnight. When we ate dinner, Sarah had to have a place at the table complete with plate, silverware, a glass of milk, and food. We dined at a kitchen table with two long benches. My brother and mom sat on one side, my dad and I on the other. When Sarah came along, my dad was forced to share the bench with two little girls. I'm sure he was less than thrilled to be pushed to the edge of the bench. But he, like the rest of my sweet family, indulged me. . .and Sarah. After about six months or so, Sarah seemed to have left as gently and quietly as she arrived. I don't recall the exact moment of either, entrance or exit. This poem made me think of her.
Alter Ego by Jennifer Gresham
What ever happened
to that imaginary friend
of yours? my mother asks
over Sunday brunch, as if
inquiring about an old
boyfriend or third cousin.
And I wonder myself exactly
when I stopped holding her hand
on the way to school, when
the closet contained only clothes?
How strange I shouldn't
remember the day,
the hour, she disappeared
as if someone had asked
When did your sister die?
and my only available reply-
I don't know.
One thing I know for certain:
there was no fight,
no messy, childhood divorce.
We simply went our separate ways,
quietly seeking companions
more like ourselves. I'd stay
late after school, she'd
skip class. Once I caught her smoking under an oak
on the playground, a sly smile,
a quick elbow to the ribs.
After that, who knows?
She went the way of all
wild women, I suppose,
no time for postcards, tales
of a life I relinquished.
For a period of few months when I was three years old, I had an imaginary friend named Sarah. Sarah was with me everywhere. When I got my nightly bath, my mom had to bathe Sarah, too. When I was buckled into the car, Sarah was buckled in as well. When my mom kissed me goodnight, Sarah also had to be kissed goodnight. When we ate dinner, Sarah had to have a place at the table complete with plate, silverware, a glass of milk, and food. We dined at a kitchen table with two long benches. My brother and mom sat on one side, my dad and I on the other. When Sarah came along, my dad was forced to share the bench with two little girls. I'm sure he was less than thrilled to be pushed to the edge of the bench. But he, like the rest of my sweet family, indulged me. . .and Sarah. After about six months or so, Sarah seemed to have left as gently and quietly as she arrived. I don't recall the exact moment of either, entrance or exit. This poem made me think of her.
Alter Ego by Jennifer Gresham
What ever happened
to that imaginary friend
of yours? my mother asks
over Sunday brunch, as if
inquiring about an old
boyfriend or third cousin.
And I wonder myself exactly
when I stopped holding her hand
on the way to school, when
the closet contained only clothes?
How strange I shouldn't
remember the day,
the hour, she disappeared
as if someone had asked
When did your sister die?
and my only available reply-
I don't know.
One thing I know for certain:
there was no fight,
no messy, childhood divorce.
We simply went our separate ways,
quietly seeking companions
more like ourselves. I'd stay
late after school, she'd
skip class. Once I caught her smoking under an oak
on the playground, a sly smile,
a quick elbow to the ribs.
After that, who knows?
She went the way of all
wild women, I suppose,
no time for postcards, tales
of a life I relinquished.