I met him when I was six. They ran and played together. I sat alone and wrote in my diary. I wrote books that I could never finish. I’d illustrate the cover, and give it a title. I’d number all the pages and make sure the book was sturdy before ever giving thought to the words needed. I’d save the story for last. Too often I would write a story and leave out the middle and end.
“Don’t worry little book,” I’d say, “I’ll finish you someday.”
But I never did. I never did finish that little book about my dog and my cat. I started several new ones, never to have an end. I met him as a child, we left him soon after, but he remained a reminder of a pleasant time in my life. Seeing him much later, threw me back into the days that my family was whole and happy. It was a warm, sad feeling. My mind loves to wonder and wander and write my life away. What I write is true.
The image of a lonely child climbing up a tree. She sits upon it content, because she is free. She waits for her savior to bring her home, and take away the feeling of being left alone.