by Jennibean

Created on: July 01, 2007

It started when I was about 3 years old. I would watch Sesame Street every day, fascinated with the pictures and sounds of letters. I would watch with amazement as the pairing of a single letter with two other letters formed a small three letter word. But to me, it wasn't a word, it was a picture; and I rapidly learned to memorize and put the pictures together. I would find books and newspapers and copy entire blocks of text just as I saw them, and I would recognize some of those familiar "pictures" as I was writing them. This kept me busy- and kept me out of trouble.

At this time, my mother was immersed in a deep depression. Blankets hung over the windows, making the house dark and still. She ate valium like candy, and because of this, she slept entire days away at a time. My dad was at work all day, and after his shift, it was straight to the bar, till about ten o'clock at night. This left me to my own devices a good majority of the time. I would get up, bathe myself, brush my teeth, and fix something to eat, with no inclination that this wasn't how things were really supposed to work. This was life.

But food wasn't always readily available. Sometimes we would run out of bread, and the only things left in the cabinet were things that had to be cooked on the stove- which I knew better than to try. So I would wander outside, down the walk and out to the curb and wait for the ice cream truck to come by, often in nothing but a little pair of terrycloth training pants. I usually stopped at the curb, but eventually the lure of the big empty street lined with inviting piles of sand was too much to ignore. I would walk down the street, seeing how long of a line I could trace in the sand with my big toe. On one particular day, I looked up and saw a beautiful, fluffy, white Persian cat. Curious, I started towards it. She started to walk away, slowly. I followed. Her pace quickened a little. As did mine. She began to trot, and I trotted along behind, until we turned down a walkway to a neat little house. She stopped up on the concrete porch and waited at the front door.

I approached slowly, anxious to feel that soft, white fur. Though it's been so many years ago, I still remember the silky feeling of fur between my little fingers. I was delighted that I had gained her trust enough for her to allow me to pet her. I scratched her head, and ran my hands down her long white back. I had made a new friend. I stooped down on the porch beside the cat, who was now stretched out

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