Literature
Imaginary Friend
The last time I spoke to her (and she actually heard me), she wore a blue sweater. Her dusty blonde hair had been swept into a slightly off-centered ponytail by her father, and she was attempting to tie a ribbon around the elastic that held it. They were running late that morning—since Mary’s mother had moved out, they were almost always running late. But that had been over a year ago, and the family had more or less settled into a routine.
Mary was almost twelve and while she missed the way things used to be, she was growing accustomed to life with divorced parents. She no longer needed me—she also no longer neede
