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I just remembered this. And I know it’s been too long since I last wrote; for that, and for the sadness of this letter, please forgive me. I only just remembered. When I was very young, a long time before you knew me, my favorite dreams always made me cry. I would find or be given some treasure of inestimable worth, something which changed from dream to dream but always shone brighter for me than Christmas morning. I don’t remember what it was. But it was priceless, and it was unquestionably mine, and upon waking I would search under my pillow and the sheets, even crawl beneath the bed looking for it. None of my tears could bring it back. Freud says that children of such a young age cannot distinguish fantasy from reality. Doesn’t that make you laugh? I used to spin whole yarns about my imaginary friends: “Red-Bird says there are unicorns where he comes from, Mom!” But even then I knew perfectly well that Red-Bird and the rest were fantasies, real only in my imagination and perhaps in my mother’s indulgence—though at that age, what child knows to appreciate a mother’s indulgence? Still, remembering how I used to wake in tears, a vastly poorer child than my dreams had made me, I have to concede Freud’s point. I wonder what he would say if he knew what you know—that in this respect I have not yet grown up? |
