I'm missing you

When I was three or four years old, I had imaginary friends.

I suppose many youngsters do. It must be fairly common or there would not be a song called Puff the Magic Dragon, which for those who don't know is about Jackie Paper, a little boy who had an imaginary dragon friend until he reaches a certain age.

In any event, I had not one but a series of imaginary playmates.

Davy, for instance, was a troublemaker. If something bad happened and I was assessed the blame, I promptly told my mother that I didn't do it - Davy did. Broken vase? Davy did it. Outside when I was supposed to be in the house? Davy made me go out to play.

Davy was a bad boy.

Jamie was my friend and companion. He played with me on the swings and in the sandbox. He was VERY good.

(My mother later told me, when I married a man named James, that she wondered long ago if I was having visions of my future, but that's another blog entry.)

I had one female playmate, but I seldom mentioned her to anyone. Her name was Sister. I had to hide her because my mother was pregnant about this time with my brother. When I said I wanted a sister, I was reprimanded.

My parents wanted a boy.

So I took Sister into hiding. Sister heard my deepest, darkest secrets. If I was lonely in the night, Sister comforted me. If I was sad, Sister patted me on the shoulder. If I needed to talk, Sister listened.

Sister stood by me when my little brother came home and helped me watch over him. Or so I imagine today, anyway. I really can't recall since I was only three.

There were times when I longed so hard for a real sister, for the confidant that I felt came only with having a sister, that I cried in despair. It was as if I were missing a part of myself.

These days I infrequently feel that same longing, a desperate yearning for . . . something. An indescribable kind of despair and grief that suddenly washes over me in a quiet moment. If someone were to ask me about it, I could only say, "I am missing my sister." But since I've never had a sister, I know that isn't right, though the description rings true.

Sometimes the longing for someone to talk to, someone who would understand everything, is so great that it makes my heart weep, even if my eyes stay dry. It's so intense at times that I have occasionally wondered if there was an unborn twin in my mother's womb with me.

It's a hole that I fill with my husband, my in-laws, my friends - sometimes just words on a blog. Sometimes it seems impossible to fill, but then it's a new day and the longing goes away.

Sometimes I think I must be a little crazy, missing someone who never was and something I never had.

Does it make any sense to you?