When I was a little girl, I had
five imaginary friends. But one of them was a ghost. Her name was Amy.
I remember waking in the morning,
and she’d be sitting on the end of my bed, waiting for me. I called her Amy,
because I had trouble saying her full name. I had a speech impediment as a
child. She didn’t seem to mind. My adult brain keeps trying to fill her full
name in from scattered memories. Amalia? Amelia? Emmeline?
She was a shadow in the house while
I dressed, ate breakfast, and brushed my teeth. We didn’t speak inside but her
presence was a comfort to me. We walked to school together every day. She
always wore the same outfit, a dress that could have come from Little House on
the Prairie, a pale blue dress with tiny flowers on it. Her hair hung in one
long braid down her back. It was a light brown color. Her eyes were blue. And
always, every day, her feet were bare.
We walked together in the snow, my
breath hanging in the air in front of me. Not hers. We would walk together all
the way to the corner of Grand and Prospect where the crossing guard stood. Amy
would stay on my side of Prospect. She couldn’t cross the street. She didn’t
know why. Every day, after school, she would be waiting for me there.
I remember knowing enough to hold
my tongue until we were out of range of other kids. And I just accept it was
true. Why do I believe she was a ghost? Partly because of all the other
spectral encounters I have had in my later life that I know are true. But also
because, of all my imaginary friends, Amy was the only one who I couldn’t
change or control. She always wore the same thin dress. I couldn’t dress her
for the appropriate season like I could the others. She was always barefoot. I
wish I remembered the conversations we had, for I know we spoke together while
we were walking.
I can’t believe I almost forgot that
she was a spirit.
Children, untainted, untrained,
unschooled, are open vessels to the world. I know a lot of parents who say
their children talk about who they were in a past life, or bring up details on historical
events they couldn’t yet know about. There are even children who give details
about their imaginary friends that, after research, turn out to be people who had
really existed. Kids see things we don’t. According to developmental psychologists,
when children reach eight years-old, they begin to conform to what they have to
believe and think in order to be part of our culture. And one of the first
things they let go of is their belief in magic, and their imagination.
We did the same thing when we were
kids. As we age we tell ourselves that what we remember couldn’t possibly have happened
the way we remember it. And we alter our own origin stories. We tell ourselves that
we couldn’t possibly remember what we did when we were four years old, that we
must be making it up. But we must remember that just because we didn’t have the
language we needed to accurately identify a thing, doesn’t mean that what we
remember is wrong. It’s just out of focus.
I have been both cursed and blessed
with a long memory for things that emotionally stirred me. I believed in magic
as a child. I remember not speaking to Amy out loud in front of others, even
though I didn’t speak out loud with my other imaginary friends. I just had conversations
with them in my head. But with Amy, I remember thinking other people would not
be able to see her. I remember subsequently hiding myself from the world
because I felt I was different. I remember how disconnected I felt when I
closed myself off to the natural world.
I believe that act was what caused
my decades of unexplainable loneliness. The more I work towards reconnecting
into the land I live on and within, the more I chip away at that dark place
inside me and the less alone I feel. And the more I accept that the quirky life
I remember as a little girl was more real than the one of concrete and asphalt.
When I was a little girl, I had
five imaginary friends. But one of them was a ghost. Her name was Amy.
I have seemed to have blocked the memory of her out but my family always talks about it because it was just to crazy to them and to them they think she was a guardian angle. I had a imaginary friend named Amy also only memory I have of it is the name and telling my mom that "Amy told me poppa is dead but it's ok"
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