It was pretty simple then.
When the mannequins in department stores spoke to me,
and helped me find my mother by pointing in the direction she had gone.
When my tiny blue plastic mermaid slept safely on her cotton padding in a small white gift box in my desk at school.
How my mother gathered driftwood from her walks on the reservoir beach and added tiny plants and figurines like elves and other Christmas things.
I used to pretend I lived in those driftwood scenes, happy, feeling like Christmas all the time.
But then Christmas would be over.
Our tree, with a few random silvery tinsel strands still clinging to it, the pine needles dried and brown, was dumped in the forest.
Our living room looked bare and white and unloved.
Winter was here.
In warmer weather, I still would sit on my rock, in among the trees, and sing to the fairies.
I knew they were there.
They never showed themselves, but I could feel them,
Listening to me.
Did they think, “who is this funny human child who thinks she can sing to us?”
