When I was three, I had an imaginary friend named Silas. He was tall. I can’t remember his ethnicity. He didn’t talk much. He wasn’t the kind of imaginary friend you pinned your indiscretions on. He was just your run-of-the-mill road dog, the very necessary playmate of an only child in a house full of women.
My mother still chuckles recalling how I’d walk away from her in a huff, lifting my tiny hand to reach up and grasp his, saying, “Come on, Silas….”
I miss him.