As a child I never believed it

Greensleeves Louise reminded me of the little house I grew up in. As it turns out, it wasn't little. There was a basement, a first floor, a second floor, and an easily accessible attic. It was old and covered in fancy and/or distasteful wallpaper.

I love wallpaper. I don't know that a little girl's room with hunters plastered across the walls, guns and all, is ideal, but I didn't seem to mind. I was an animal person. I failed to take note that the dogs were chasing the birds. And the bird were being shot at. In my mind, it was a beautiful tapestry of short-haired dogs and large wild birds--Paradise for a girl like me.

The funny thing is I didn't really grow up in that house. I just feel like I did. My earliest memories took place there, and my earliest recalled thoughts. The best of my childhood adventures...up until age 6, when the city paved over our paradise to create an additional parking lot for the hospital across the street, which is now abandoned.

We moved into the new house, sixteen years ago. We still call it that--the new house. Its blossomed into something lovely. A new paradise for one who lives in a two bedroom apartment with three other girls and a pair of red plaid couches.

I've gotten away with myself. I intended on mentioning Mrs. Wilcox, my elderly neighbor. She ran the bank in town. It wasn't the only bank, just the only bank that mattered. She was thin and white haired and wrinkly, and just as lovely as Mrs. Merwin who I never recall meeting, but formed self generated memories of as a five year old as my sisters spoke of the pies she baked and the house she had lived in, until it too was paved over (several years before ours). I created elaborate scenes of the friendship we might of had, as I looked over the neighboring parking lot from the grass clipping nest I'd created in a game of birds. We played this game on what seems a nearly regular basis.

Mrs. Wilcox was special to me. I don't recall anything but her profile, her business skirt suit, and a perhaps a fancy old lady hat, and my last visit to see her.

My sisters and I ran up to her back door to knock and say hello, and a stranger answered. "Mrs. Wilcox is sick today. She doesn't want any visitors."

My mind could not contemplate it. But only if she knew who her visitors were. If she saw us, we would make her feel better. But, of course, we were a timid bunch, at least around strangers, and we left without arguing.

How ironic, that I recall my last visit with her, at which she wasn't actually present.

We moved, and promises were made to come back to her place to say hello. But, we never returned, and Mrs. Wilcox passed away. The whole town knew it. She was an important figure. I recall feeling as though I had let her down. I wonder if I had. I wonder if she really did not want visitors that day. As a child I never believed it. Even now--