Everything I need to know of you, I knew when I was six.
Fall leaves, wind and quiet songs, secrets I would never tell -but I could tell you anything. Mornings were my favorite. The house was still, and while the bigger people slept we’d go outside and talk about the things we liked.
You said you liked the sky and how it’s always changing. I said I liked my dog because she could see you too.
A new wind came, and I must have bumped my head. I fell asleep and woke to silence. I couldn’t hear your voice or find you in our secret places.
Someone said I'd made you up, that you were never really real. He tried to cheer me up and told me I was getting older now and didn't need an imaginary friend. He was big, and I was little, so I guessed it must be true.
But now and then a fragrance came and followed me in dreams. I couldn’t see your face or hear your songs, but it was you; no one else smells like that. Like heaps of cotton candy, peaches, and that narrow path behind the school after it rained.
One night, in my favorite dream, I was led into a storm. In the eye stood a dragon who breathed a funny fire and sought to kill your voice forever. When I saw how big the creature was, I remembered I was small and cried, "All I have is this, you're gone when I'm awake!"
Before long, I’d cried so hard the fire went out. And because the creature never learned to swim, it drowned.
I fought to see and hear you, and keep the things you love to say: stories painting heaven, ancient and familiar rooms, my chair, a rose, and colors playing music.
You love a sky that always changes and little things, like mountains. But my favorite part so far is this: You sent the wind and taught me how to kill a dragon, so I’d never have to sleep to dream again.
