Letters From a Friend

This is a story about E., both unique and familiar.

E. was a lonely child growing up. A child during the difficult years in Armenia, she found herself all too alone much of the time.

In a box hidden in E. 's room she kept newspaper scraps she caught floating in the air.

Every once in a while she would pull them out and stare at them for long periods of time trying to decipher the hidden messages she was convinced someone, somewhere, was sending her.

She had a secret friend.

Someone very dear and special to her that she would communicate with through letters passed back and forth on her bedroom door. Through these letters she learned that her friend was a dwarf from a far off land. One of his legs was lame and so he walked with a limp, going back and forth from his homeland to her hallway, delivering and receiving messages as often as he could, all so he could show how much he cared about her.

The two communicated for a long time; E. cherishing every letter from her limp legged friend.

E. said that her childhood was a safe place removed from the dangers of the world. Though life in Armenia at the time was difficult, she remained unaware, blissfully naïve of the war, of hunger, and the cold.

Much later, E. would learn that it was her grandmother corresponding with her. There was no lame dwarf, only a loving parent holding off her granddaughter growing up as long as possible, and managing to do so for a time.

What does it take to destroy a childhood fantasy?

How about divorce? Or trauma? Abuse? Neglect? Blame? Acrimony? How many tools are there to break that sweet illusion? To turn precious memories bittersweet? 

At what point does one begin to lament the loss of an innocent lie?

Nothing lasts. Not for E.. Not for anyone.