I am fading.
The flashes of our memories play across my vision like home-made movies. Her laughter rings in my ears like constant bells reminding me of what is gone and the picture of her crooked, marvelous smile plasters itself to my memory as if her happiness was nothing more than pure, childhood innocence. I flail my arms, reaching for these slivers of silver memories dissipating inside her brain. She pushes me back into the void of her mind, doomed to dissolve away like the countless memories she made with me. As hard as my invisible presence can, I push back, calling out without vocal cords and trying to rattle some whisper of my existence in her conscious.
I am failing.
So I wrap myself around our fondest memories. She was an imaginative child. We would spend hours climbing around on her furniture turned volcano, avoiding the floor because it was lava. Or we’d sail the vast seas, her bed a massive ship, she the captain and I the first mate. We’d battle countless enemies like the superhero cartoons we’d watch on Saturday mornings; she could turn into any animal she’d imagine (her favorite being the lion) and I could run faster than airplanes. And when we were tired of exhausting adventures, we’d set up a household in her bedroom, she the mother of her favorite doll and I the father.
I am falling.
She is growing up and as she does she separates herself from me: a creation of her mind. And just like the hundreds of her other creations, I am being drained from existence. She no longer cares for imaginative play, but instead for clothes, makeup, and boys. And because of this, she no longer cares for me. I, her longtime, childhood imaginary friend, will cease to have any connection to this world without my lovely friend holding onto me. I am becoming lost to the land of the forgotten, home of lost imagination. I am fading.
And I am gone.