I remember Whimsy, how she would sit in the swing out back and we'd make up strange tales and laugh. I remember she always wore that ridiculous pink bunny costume and carried a bent wand like a senile fairy godmother. I remember the sadness that showed red in the corners of her eyes, only occasionally in the old days, but a little more as time went by.
And then Whimsy was gone. I'd look for her out by the back hedge where the gnomes used to hide, or over behind the shed where the bricks were piled into a fort, but she wasn't there. I wept for want of Whimsy many days, but, as all people do, I learned to cope.
Then I saw her, sitting at a bus stop near Ephriham street. I swerved into the left lane to turn and see her, but opposing traffic was thick. As I waited for an opening, I watched her. Her bunny costume was worn around the edges, and stained with mud up to the knees. She had dark circles under her bloodshot eyes. She was smoking a cigarette and staring down at the ground. I honked, but she didn't look up. I rolled down the window, as the bus approached in the thick traffic, and called out to her. "Whimsy!" She never heard me. She just got up and the bus took her away.
Who's to blame for Whimsy lost? The city streets are no place for Whimsy. She never talked about anything troublesome or sad, never a problem or woe. She laughed and we escaped, always only playing games. We both knew that. Then I became more certain, more blatant, less hopeful. I think she enjoyed the illusion more than I did. I came to fear it. I enjoyed the company, the art of the story, not the mystery.
I look for Whimsy every day, out of the corner of my eye. Sometimes I hear her voice, but I never catch a glimpse. Sometimes I wake up certain that she was just whispering in my ear, but she's not there.
If you see Whimsy, tell her I don't think we choose to believe or to doubt. Tell her some things are real and some things are not. Tell her...
Wait. No. Don't tell her any of that. Just tell her that I miss her.
Hello, friends. How are you today?
Later. Love.
(Originally posted on January 17, 2006 on my cogito site.)
