The Little Friend
- When my husband was small, his brother Jack had a friend. They lived out in the house in West Clare then, and Jack would come back in from playing with Conor at the bottom of the garden where the woods were.
It’s late and the wine is nearly finished. Three of us are sitting in the depths of an old, squashed couch, in a room that used to be a forge. This room is a part of my younger self. Everything in it is loved and familiar; the rambling mural that runs all along one wall, the chairs and couches covered with woollen patchworked blankets, the golden arc of the wood-panelled ceiling above I would lie and gaze at for hours.
When I close my eyes and think of somewhere safe to be, this room is it.
We had been talking about ghosts.
- Conor had a hat, and a little jacket. No-one else could see him, but Jack was very clear about what he looked like. Jack would play with Conor most days.
If I turned my head I would be able to see her profile, but I'm comfortable where I am so I listen instead. Her voice still has the Dutch inflection that the years in Ireland have not worn away, her vowels slightly shortened.
I once had a friend that no-one else could see. His name was Pudding. My mum kept a diary for me when I was two or three, and I found it one day when I was a teenager. She wrote all about what Pudding said and did. Until I read it, I hadn't remembered Pudding at all.
- When Noah was about six we moved into the house. It was just after the parents had died and my husband wanted to go back to live there. It’s a bit in the middle of nowhere, the house, but there is a lot of space to go exploring.
She pauses, tips her glass to watch the wine resettle.
- One day soon after we moved in Noah came back after being out all day. I asked him where he had been and he said he was playing with Conor.
I do turn to look at her now, but she's staring straight ahead.
- Noah had never met Jack, Jack had moved out long before we arrived. But Noah could tell us exactly what Conor looked like. The hat. The jacket.
Pudding, I think. And for a moment I get the same feeling I did when I opened that diary.
That I wasn't entirely sure if Pudding was good or bad.
It’s late and the wine is nearly finished. Three of us are sitting in the depths of an old, squashed couch, in a room that used to be a forge. This room is a part of my younger self. Everything in it is loved and familiar; the rambling mural that runs all along one wall, the chairs and couches covered with woollen patchworked blankets, the golden arc of the wood-panelled ceiling above I would lie and gaze at for hours.
When I close my eyes and think of somewhere safe to be, this room is it.
We had been talking about ghosts.
- Conor had a hat, and a little jacket. No-one else could see him, but Jack was very clear about what he looked like. Jack would play with Conor most days.
If I turned my head I would be able to see her profile, but I'm comfortable where I am so I listen instead. Her voice still has the Dutch inflection that the years in Ireland have not worn away, her vowels slightly shortened.
I once had a friend that no-one else could see. His name was Pudding. My mum kept a diary for me when I was two or three, and I found it one day when I was a teenager. She wrote all about what Pudding said and did. Until I read it, I hadn't remembered Pudding at all.
- When Noah was about six we moved into the house. It was just after the parents had died and my husband wanted to go back to live there. It’s a bit in the middle of nowhere, the house, but there is a lot of space to go exploring.
She pauses, tips her glass to watch the wine resettle.
- One day soon after we moved in Noah came back after being out all day. I asked him where he had been and he said he was playing with Conor.
I do turn to look at her now, but she's staring straight ahead.
- Noah had never met Jack, Jack had moved out long before we arrived. But Noah could tell us exactly what Conor looked like. The hat. The jacket.
Pudding, I think. And for a moment I get the same feeling I did when I opened that diary.
That I wasn't entirely sure if Pudding was good or bad.
posted by Riona at
5:48 AM
3 Comments:
Oooo...shivers. I had an imaginary Lion called Raj...but he was all good.
By
Jade, at 3:15 PM
Definitely shivers. I don't suppose I've ever been creative enough to have an imaginary friend or open enough to see one that isn't imagined.
By
Kristin, at 10:32 AM
i worry that i'm growing increasingly susceptible to the invention of invisible friends. but henceforth i'll be vigilant of the Puddings of the invisible friend population
By
intentionally left blank, at 11:01 PM
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