She travels to places I can’t see, whispering hushed words of reassurance to her dolls and teddies, her “friends” who she believes speak back to her.
At night, I hear her conversing with John Jelly Moo, the other friend I can’t hear. He lives by her side, although sometimes he’s not there. He’s real in her mind. She can see him.
Outside, she talks to the birds. Shouting or laughing, stretching her arms wide as she tries to reach up to the sky. Frustrated, she bends down to the earth, searching for worms she can whisper to. Whispering is her new favourite thing.
When the rain whips at the windows like angry tentacles, she retreats into an indoor world of supermarkets and baking, houses and boats. It’s a world I’m sometimes given restricted access to, but only when she needs a customer to visit the shop. Continue reading »