Growing up, my sister was my best friend; she was the shot(s) of vodka in my apple juice life. We surveyed the suburban woods like Lewis and Clark, and we reenacted the end of The Sorcerer’s Stone with the park’s outdoor chess set. Needless to say, we didn’t have many friends with such behavior—we didn’t even have a third friend to play Sacajawea or Ron. So, I was devastated when she started ‘hanging out’ with her new ‘imaginary friend’ instead of me. Was I not good enough for her? Could I not play Harry well enough for her? If I wasn’t so young, I would have turned to alcohol just to be a more convincing Meriwether.
But, I don’t think it would have mattered. She was truly happy.
She left our home for hours to play with her new friend; she even had sleepovers. I felt so alone…my whole life our lives were so interdependent. Still, she kept hanging out with her new friend.
“When are you going to stop hanging out with your new and improved friend???”
“Oh, so you think she’s real now?”
“No. She’s pretend…just admit it!!”
“MOM!”
“Honey, leave your sister alone, and stop saying her friend’s imaginary. You’ve met her for god’s sake.”
“She won’t play with me!”
“That’s because she has more appropriate friends and hobbies, now. Imaginary adventures can’t last forever—”
“—Tell that to her and her new friend.”
“Go to your room.
I swear…that imagination.”
