I remember how I used to make you smile.

Those crisp afternoons outside where the trees dappled sunlight on your elfin face hold the fondest place in my heart.  I can still hear the wind rustling the tall grass your father always said he’d get around to cutting eventually (but we all knew he left it long because you loved it like that).  You called it your jungle, and we would chase each other through it until our legs were sore from exertion.

I know your parents didn’t like when I was around, didn’t like when you mentioned me; I know they somehow linked me and what happened the month before we met, but I always admired the way you stood up for me.  I was always too shy to talk to anyone but you.

When it was raining or cold outside, you would take the sheets off of your bed and drape them over tables, creating hideaways that instantly became our caves or spaceships, aeries or castles.  We would giggle and imagine our way through dinner, and when your mother pulled up the blanket and broke the illusion, I would sink back into the shadows until you returned.

I remember it was a while before you told me about your brother.  I held your hand as you spoke, and I can still feel the hot tears that landed on the back of it as I learned about the night he never came home and you lost your best friend.  I guess after that I sort of hoped I would become your new best friend.  For seven years, maybe I was.

I don’t see you as much these days, and it breaks my heart to watch you, growing up without me by your side.  I try to talk to you every once in a while, try to bring back the years of our childhood, but most of the time you’re too busy to even hear me.  I guess it’s worth it, though, to see all of the amazing things you’re accomplishing.  You’re moving on with your life, forgetting the horrors you endured, growing stronger and wiser each day.  I guess you don’t need me anymore.

I guess you’re just too old for an imaginary friend now.