April 17, 2019:

We were friends our whole life. She has a pic of us: I'm 3 1/2, he's 4. April 21, 1961.

How could she have torn us apart with so little thought?


Because she didn't believe that children formed meaningful friendships. She hadn't.

Because she was patronizing to all children, as nearly all adults were then and now. Their legitimate concerns are dismissed as childish overreaction: the strategy of tears. So that real wounds with real consequences are pooh-pooh'd.

Because she was incapable of listening. At no point ever in her entire adult life was she able to hear what others said to her. Above all not children, above all not me.

Because she was wrapped-up in her own fantasy of friendship. With a bestie who soon made the mistake of patronizing her, so that she walked away without a word.

Because she lived in her head. The lasting effect of childhood abuse. Imagination was real to her: that's where the color and the drama lived. Reality was ghostly pale gray.

So that I lost my friends. Real friends not imaginary, who I loved without inhibition, who I tried to find, several times, pointlessly, the minute I had wheels.