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 comfortably across the welcome mat. I laid down next to her on my belly, propped my head up with my hands, and continued my wait for the ice cream man. The sun was getting hot, and I grew more hungry by the minute.
Then to my surprise, the front door of the neat little house opened. Startled, I sat up. An older lady looked down at me, sizing me up. I still wonder what she thought of this toddler sitting on her porch next to her cat with stringy red hair and nothing but a pair of shorts on. I froze, like a deer caught in the path of an oncoming truck. But the lady was kindly, and she stepped out onto the porch and began talking to her cat. The cat's name was Cotton Candy. I loved that name. I thought it was clever. The lady introduced herself as JoAnne. She asked where my mom was. I told her that she was asleep. Then she asked where dad was. At work, I say. "Who is taking care of you?" she asks. "Me." I say, pointing to myself. She smiles.
She invited me inside and fixed me a peanut butter sandwich. I played with Cotton Candy some more. I noticed that Miss JoAnne's house was light, bright, and airy; not dark, stuffy, and still like mine. The curtains were all open, and there were knick-knacks on shelves and a basket full of yarn and knitting needles. Fascinating. It was a warm, friendly place, and Miss JoAnne was so nice. She talked a lot, and I just listened. She started asking me all these questions... about home. I told her that my mom was sick... because that's what everyone kept telling me. I told her my dad was sick too, because he drank every day and couldn't stop. She asked what I did all day at home. I said, "I write words on papers." Again, she smiles.
She asked me if I knew who God was. I say yes. She tells me I should go home and write some words on paper asking God to make my mom and dad well again. It hadn't occurred to me to do this, but I took the idea into consideration. After some more visiting, she walked me back to my house, and I disappeared into the dark depths of the living room. I found some paper and a pencil, and I wrote...
Deer god... mom iz sik en dad iz sik en evybdy nose so ples mak thm bttr so it wot be drk in her enemor. Amin.
I put my note in the living room window where I knew He would see it. Something told me I should pull all the blankets off the windows. I did, and my house now looked like miss JoAnne's... bright ans sunny. It wasn't so bad to be alone in there anymore. And despite the fact that my mom was sleeping and dad was off drinking somewhere, I don't think I was anymore....