You ran away with Childhood and the Princess.

Dear Imaginary Friend,

You didn't have to move off to Idaho and get married at the age of six. You aren't allowed to have a mid-life crisis for at least ten more years. Or, at least that's what my sister told me when she was sixteen.

It isn't true, you know. About teenage years. I still have the same eyes and I like chocolate milk (even though it's almond milk now). We can stay up late under my covers, reading novels with a flashlight like we used to. We can fill notebooks with all the nonsense in our heads. We're the most recognized celebrities in the playroom, so Barbie and Ken are jealous of us. Especially the Hannah Montana Barbie doll who took off all her clothes and made a scene at the VMA's. You were lucky you were in Idaho for that performance.

 I bet I have a box of crayons tucked away in some drawer.

I think I had a crush on you. Or maybe you had a crush on me. But we all know princes are only allowed to marry princesses and so I could not fit in your castle by the mailbox. But we'll be okay. You got your princess, and I'll go kidnap some prince someday (Contrary to popular belief, I'm not sitting around waiting for him to show up).

Happy news: We finally got a dog. She's five pounds. The stereotypical skinny white bitch (Haha). I know the parental units pinkie-promised I could get one when I was seven. But true to form, it happened about eight years later. It's better than the pet worms we used to keep in a tupperware container in the upstairs bathroom. You know, the ones we named after our favorite desserts. Brownie, Cupcake, Cookie, Kit Kat...

Remember when I introduced you to Bria and Anna? You were shy and didn't show yourself to them. But I didn't care what they thought about us, as long as we could go to McDonald's together for the Happy Meals. Even when my dad forgot to take off your seatbelt and left you. Grown-ups...

You hit me once. Boys aren't supposed to hit girls. But I forgave you, you know. You didn't have to run away and take your castle by the mailbox with you. You took Childhood with you.

In case you didn't know, calling you is as pointless as calling Childhood herself. She was nicer than you, and she still won't pick up her phone. Or write me back. She says she has "moved on."

We used to be on speaking terms, you know. We used to be... best friends. But she did leave me with some wisdom stored in an abstract corner of my brain. Like when the teacher asked if Sally had two cookies and you took away two, it didn't matter the number she had left. What mattered was that Sally was on the verge of crying, and you had to share your cookies with her if you didn't want her tears to ruin the mural you were working on.

Or that you shouldn't eat dirt because it wasn't "ladylike" (what she means to say is it got stuck in your teeth).

But she's gone and you're gone.

Yesterday, I traded in my calculus textbook for a box of twelve crayons. I didn't care if my math teacher didn't like it. My math teacher and Childhood weren't just avoiding each other's phone calls. They were enemies. The number seventeen x looked a lot prettier in the color red, and I am sure she gained some self-confidence too. When you're a grown up, all you mention about the girls in our neighborhood is their looks and their self-confidence. I think it should be a rule that you ask them instead how many minutes they can hula-hoop without letting it drop to the floor or how many freckles they have on their nose. Those are the interesting things anyway.

Let's get to the point of this letter. You know what it is, don't you? So one day I locked you and Childhood and my first grade teacher in my basement. I threatened that I wouldn't let you go until I was a kid again. And the teacher gave me the sad, grown-up smile that they give when they know something you don't. And Childhood smirked and gave some sarcastic remark. And you looked at the carpet and were quiet. I'm sorry. I bet you missed your princess.

So I handed you all a crayon in your favorite color. You drew a purple schoolbus on the wall before my parents saw, and the three of you climbed aboard and didn't say goodbye even if you were thinking it. And that's the last time I saw you. And my mom forced me to scrub off the crayon that you left behind. She thinks washing away a memory is the same thing as washing a wall. Grown ups...

Sometimes, it isn't that easy.

And sometimes I wish it was.

Sincerely,

Your lost child

P.S. If you made up the rumor that Bill Nye died last year, it wasn't funny.