squinting

Sometimes when I squint real hard into the sunlight, I can see him again. I don't know what he looks like, these days, but I can see that he's there. It had been years since I'd talked to Gary Indiana on a regular basis. That was his name, you know, "Gary Indiana," and he liked to eat cooked peas.

Gary helped me out of a lot of tight spots that way, eating all the mushy green stuff on my plate so that I could get dessert, and claiming that he would watch the dog out in the backyard and make sure he pooped so I could play on the swingset while it was just getting dark. I say "claiming" 'cause sometimes he did, and sometimes he didn't. But sometimes he just sat there quietly when I thought something bad was going to come out from under my bed.

Gary Indiana was the best imaginary friend a kid could have.