Dear Imaginary Friends...

This is my first, and probably my last post on here. I truly love the concept of Vocal, and will continue to read other contributions, but I fear that my own go far too off topic to put under one title. Sorry about that—oops. I know that in this short piece below, I quickly veer from imaginary friends, but I enjoyed writing...whatever this is, and I hope that even with all of my rambling, you enjoy reading it.

Sometimes, I like to fool myself into thinking that the imaginary friends that I have now are the same ones that I had when I was younger. Sometimes for sentimental reasons, but sometimes because I don't want to believe the alternative—that they aren't imaginary friends anymore.

Where is the line between imaginary friends and loved ones that have passed away? I see a line in the sand, scuffed and smudged by the process of "growing up." When I was younger, I remember having a girl imaginary friend, a little younger than me, maybe like the younger sister that I never had? Not that I begrudge not having any siblings, but sometimes, I just liked to play with someone that knew me, without me actually having to explain me, because even at a young age, I was perceptive and what I wanted myself to be seen as was not the person that ever came across in the mirror.

I don't think that she ever had a name, and I can't imagine that I was very open about her, because I was a little afraid of being the "weird" one.

Now, I have recently turned eighteen, and even to write this is making me question myself. Am I mad? Do 18-year-olds actually have imaginary friends? In my experience, I'm not sure that I do anymore. As much as I want it, I think my imaginary friend has now become an older lady, hunched with arthritis, and wearing one of those funny little aprons around the house, looking a bit like the gentle dinner lady who used to give you the larger slice of sponge cake with your custard.

My imaginary friend is no longer the little girl, but my Auntie Margaret—my Bopa—who passed away in the winter of 2016.

Having established this, I realise I never got to thank whatever it was that put the idea into my head that imaginary friends existed. I never got to thank the little gust of wind that softly poked the spring flowers, entertaining me for hours as I watched them open in the vase on the windowsill. I never got to thank the hours of play that I had, alone in my room, surrounded by the wooden peg-dolls that often liked to host tea parties in their shoebox caravans for their larger counterparts (I used to set a place not only for the peg dolls and teddies, but for myself and my imaginary friend).

I realise that this makes my childhood look like a very lonely one. Absolutely not. I have an incredibly nurturing family who made every effort to teach me everything I know in the best way possible. I had friends who, at the time, I adored, and we would play for hours together.

But I look back on the times with my imaginary friends with more fondness than any other memory, because only I remember it. And if I'm ever having a bad day, I can search through my trove of memories, and create, altar, chop and change any of my "imaginary" reminiscings.

I did have wooden peg dolls. And they did host afternoon tea. However, they did not have shoebox caravans. I suppose I inserted that as a reflection of what I would like from life—an artsy little caravan that I can travel the world and host afternoon teas in. But, to an extent, isn't it nice? Being able to create memories that nobody can contest? I think that it is beautiful. Memory is so beautiful. But so is progressing forward. If you don't remember anything, remember that. Progressing forward is just as, if not more important, than looking back. Ironic, isn't it?