My Little Friend

How time flies! It seems like only yesterday, I was about five years old living in Brooklyn with my parents and siblings. I thought we had all the time in the world to discover new things. Now, here I am in my seventies, living in Florida, and trying to survive on my social security benefit.

Yet, those days in Brooklyn are as fresh and clear in my mind as if they happened just the day before. I guess some of it is because of my friend Alen. He’s always with me. In fact, he has followed me everywhere I go.

I can still hear my mom asking, “hon, who are you talking to?” I’d always reply, “Alen, mom.” She’d smile, shake her head, and get back to whatever she was doing.

Alen had been my friend as long as I could remember but what puzzled me as a child was why mom couldn’t see him. Through the years, I’d gotten used to that fact and no longer questioned it. Mom never questioned it and just assumed he was an imaginary playmate that would one day disappear as I got older. I never looked at Alen that way. I just assumed he’d be with me forever.

It all began one rainy afternoon when I was about five years old, and in bed severely ill with a sore throat and fever. During those days, doctors made house calls and our pediatrician give me an injection of penicillin and advised my mother to keep me ib bed for at least another 24 hours.

As I sat in bed being completely bored with the coloring books mom gave me, I suddenly noticed a boy about my age sitting at the foot of my bed.

“Who are you?” I asked as I wondered why there was a strange boy in our apartment.

Before I go on, I need to describe our apartment. It was what was called a railroad flat – as you entered the front door, the kitchen was ahead but on the left. The dining room was ahead but off to the right. Making a half circle from the dining room, you walked into my bedroom. If you kept walking straight, you’d walk directly into my parent’s bedroom and immediately after that was our parlor. A few more steps, and a right turn, was what was called the “hall bedroom” and that’s where my brother slept.

The only rooms that had doors were the bathroom (that was just inside the front door and on the left) and the hall bedroom. All other rooms were separated by long draperies – which were hardly ever pulled closed.

Anyway, here I was sick in bed and not allowed to get up unless it was to visit the bathroom, and bored silly. My seven-year-old brother did his best to entertain me but there was only so much a seven-year-old could think of. Mom read to me, but she still had housework to do. Guess I was pretty much left to my own imagination.

Putting my crayons back in the box and tossing my coloring book aside is when I noticed Alen. I have no idea how long he’d been sitting there but, at first, I was frightened. Who was this boy and why did my mom allow him in our home and more importantly, why was he sitting on my bed?

He smiled and said, “My name’s Alen and I’m your new friend. I came to keep you company.”

After all these years, I don’t remember our entire conversation, but I can tell you that for the next two hours, he had kept me amused. We talked and laughed. Mom was in the parlor ironing and my brother was in his room doing his best to learn how to play his second-hand guitar.

I heard the guitar stop and mom say, “Oh good, you’re finished, it’s time for lunch.”

The frame of the ironing board squeaked as mom folded it up. While she placed it behind a parlor chair, my brother placed the sack of clothes yet to be ironed with it.

I turned to ask Alen if he’d stay for lunch, but he wasn’t there. As quietly as he’d come into our home, he left the same way.

When my mother walked through my room, I asked her who Alen was and when did she let him in my room. She gave me a strange look and said she didn’t know an Alen and she would never allow any boy to iknto my room, especially when I’m sick.

I looked at her and said, “But Mom, he was here. You heard me talking to him.”

“Honey, yes, I heard YOU talking but I never heard anyone talking back to you. I thought you were talking to one of your dolls.”

Thinking back, that was an odd thing for her to say since I hated dolls and avoided them as often as possible. But at five years of age, I just shrugged and once again, opened my coloring book and started to color.

After that, whenever Alen came to visit, I whispered. I’m not sure why since it didn’t seem to bother anyone, but the older I got, the more I didn’t want anyone to wonder why I spoke to the “air”.

Getting older, I wondered about my friend that no one could see. I’ve read many articles on the subject and discovered that very often, a child will form an attachment to an imaginary friend in times of need. That attachment can last for years. However, that was not the case with me. I never felt the need for an imaginary friend. I had living friends and a loving family. I had friends in school, and I was in school clubs. I was in neighborhood clubs. I never considered myself lonely. Actually, I was rarely alone. Yet, there were times when I’d be studying and looking up, I’d find Alen sitting next to me reading the same textbook I was reading.

I’d whisper, “Hi. Why are you here?”

He’d whisper back, “Just wanted to say hello.”

I’d smile and say, “I’m busy. Go away.”

Sometimes he would and sometimes, he wouldn’t, but he was never a bother. Nor was he frightening. Alen was just “there”!

I guess, he hung around in case I felt the need to talk to someone who wasn’t there. I never really asked; it didn’t matter. It still doesn’t. All these years later, Alen is still a presence in my life. We grew up together. We are both in our seventies. Sometimes, he’ll ask if I recall a certain memory. Most of the time, I do.

Did I ever tell my family about him? Nope! My husband and children (who are grown with families of their own) would probably think I’m crazy. After all these years, sometimes I wonder if maybe that were a possibility but then, if I were crazy, wouldn’t I be demonstrating a more bizarre behavior?

My only oddity is a friend that grew up with me that only I can see and hear.

I often wonder who he is and where he came from but all he says is his name and he’s always been with me.

Guess I’ll never know any other answers to my questions but then, after all these years, it just doesn’t matter anymore.

Alen just said it’s time to stop talking about him so I can make dinner for my family.

I smile and say, “good night, everyone.”