Created from the depths of a child’s imagination, I entered life in the shape my child gave me. With pink hair, a fuzzy tail, kitten ears, and a tiara, I was born from the culmination of a little girl’s childhood joys. Made for her and her alone, I became what adults call a silly fantasy, a make-believe image, an imaginary friend.
I don’t care what they call me. The only name that matters to me is the one my creator gave me. I still remember the moment I first saw her, six years old and already remarkably brilliant. I awoke in the world to behold her beautiful sight. Dani stood before me with a wide smile, her hair twisted in delightful little pigtails. She dressed better than any princess, her wardrobe consisting of a spectacular purple tutu skirt, plastic beads, and matching purple polka-dot rain boots. I couldn’t help but smile brightly at the sight of her, as she raised a hand to wave to me.
“Hi Bonnie!” I heard her call, and from that moment on, the name sealed itself inside my heart. On occasion it would change just slightly. Sometimes I was Princess Bonnie, other times ballerina Bonnie, or cowgirl Bonnie. Every game we played adjusted my name to fit the setting of our newest adventure.
Oh, the adventures we shared! They never ended. Dani took me on the spaceship of her imagination as we visited castles, fought off bandits, sat at leisurely tea parties, and danced the night away. Each adventure cast us into spectacular whirlwinds of fun, but each one ended the same. We’d put on our tiaras, point to one another, and make a princess promise to be best friends forever. Day after day, I stayed by her side, and night after night I soothed her to sleep, assuring her I could keep the monsters under her bed at bay.
However, Dani never knew about her parents’ worries. Her mother and father worked long, tiring jobs and had a troubled marriage that often ended in fits of shouting certain words I’d covered Dani’s ears for. Neither of them stayed around to support their daughter enough, and they knew it. Often at night, they sneaked into her bedroom to sit at her side with me, and I overheard their soft whispers of concern.
“What if she doesn’t make any friends in kindergarten?”
“I wish we didn’t have to leave her alone so much.”
“She talks to herself all the time. Is that normal for a kid her age?”
“I’m worried about her. The only friend she has is that weird imaginary creature, that Bonnie thing.”
Often their words hurt, but hurtful words come from hurting people. I knew they missed their daughter. They loved her but feared they couldn’t be enough. That’s where I came in. When they filed the divorce papers, and her father moved out, I held heartbroken Dani. When it seemed impossible to learn the alphabet, I helped her practice. Finally, when her mother missed her first school show, I appeared to congratulate her.
I remember tucking Dani into bed the night after that show, purple glitter still glistening in her hair from her bedazzled costume. She held onto my hand so tight, rehearsing her two lines from the performance over and over so she could perform them for her mother the next day. Her resilient heart remained undeterred by the lack of her mother’s presence. How I wished she wasn’t so used to disappointment.
When midnight rolled around, her mother finally pried open the door to Dani’s room. Pushing aside the barricade of stuffed animals, she took a seat on the side of her daughter’s bed. Deep purple bags lingered under her eyes, nearly brimming over with tears.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, repeating the phrase till the tears finally broke loose. “I’m sorry I missed your show. I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you. I’m sorry for failing you as a mother,” she sobbed.
My heart couldn’t help but take pity on her. Dani made me into a compassionate being, and the love of my little girl’s heart overflowed into my own. I placed a still hand on her mother’s shoulder, wishing she could see through the eyes of her child. If only she could see me, if only she could hear me, I’d tell her how much her daughter adored her.
For a moment, her mother stilled under my hand. For a second, she drew close to finding that childlike belief that allows you to see the impossible. But she fell just short of it. With a whisper, she looked into the air on the other side of Dani’s bed, right where I stood. “Bonnie?” she called softly, shaking her head like she couldn’t believe what she was saying. “Bonnie, if you’re there…if you’re real… I need you to look after my little girl. Be her invisible angel, be her friend, be whatever she needs when I’m not enough.”
“I will,” I whispered back, knowing she couldn’t hear me. I put my tiara on and pointed at her the same way Dani and I would whenever we ended an adventure. “It’s a princess promise.”
From that moment on, I took it upon myself to give Dani the best childhood imaginable. Our adventures became increasingly wild and fun-filled as her mother grew more distant, my hugs became tighter the more disappointment came her way, and our princess promises gradually grew more and more elaborate the more she needed me. For a while, I thought I’d be with her forever. I thought she’d need me for all of eternity… but that was until she made a friend.
Dani met Ethan on the playground at the end of kindergarten. We’d been swinging back and forth on the swing set, pretending to be little fairies flying though the sky. What I never predicted was the possibility of there being another child doing the same thing with their own invisible friend. Ethan hopped on the swing next to Dani, followed by a boy just like me with bright blue hair in a space suit.
“Come on, Max! We’re going to the moon!” he shouted, waving his invisible friend along as he pretended to strap into the rocket that the swing set became.
I remember Dani looking over at me, her invisible fairy wings fading away as she whispered to me. “I want to go to the moon too.”
I smiled and pointed to Ethan. “Then ask him if you can come.”
Dani stood and tapped on Ethan’s shoulder. “Uh, hello,” she mumbled, still quite shy and wary of new people. “Can I join you on your spaceship?”
Ethan looked to Max, and the blue haired astronaut gave him a nod. “You’re going to need a copilot, kiddo.”
With Max’s approval, Ethan flashed Dani a smile, shouting, “Welcome aboard!”
From there, the two of them flew to the moon and directed their spacecraft to soar off to a long-lasting friendship. Designed to play the role of a loyal friend, I found no greater honor than to watch Dani learn to befriend Ethan, love others, and grow. We journeyed through elementary, middle, and high school together, time dashing by as we turned our thoughts to the stars. Soon, purple tutus and tea sets began to vanish, and her stuffed animal collection diminished, all to be replaced with star charts and prints of the Hubble telescope. Dani and Ethan no longer played astronauts together. Now they went stargazing, and spent time talking about their futures as aerospace engineers.
Max vanished years ago; his spacesuit lost to the whims of time as Ethan’s imagination slowly lost sight of his old friend. Yet, I remained. Dani’s heart still needed me. My mission still needed fulfilling. I remained her friend and companion, her invisible angel staying by her side until her heart was full enough for her to live on her own. By now, my body had grown frail and thin. I’d lost the tail, kitten ears, and tiara she had once bestowed upon me. Now, I appear completely human to her, my pink hair the only remaining piece of my original design. Most of the time, I haunt her room like a ghost, barely existing, forgotten, only getting called upon in a rare moment of need.
College admissions proved a difficult time, and testing for SAT’s and ACT’s brought Dani an extreme amount of stress. Every now and then, I’d come to comfort her during those times, but my support typically ended up short lived. I held her in my arms, whispering encouragement that went unheard as she reached for her phone to dial Ethan. Every time she pushed me away, I felt my heart and body fade. A part of me died each time, and another part of me soared because each time she didn’t need me, it meant my little girl was growing up. Each time she picked herself up, reached out for a friend, and solved her own problems meant that my princess promise to her mother was coming true. Dani didn’t need me anymore. She grew up.
As soon as the thought passed through my head, I felt my arms and legs begin to tingle and fade. I reached my end. Vanishing slowly, I savored the very last sight of my beloved little girl. Dani had grown into a lovely young woman. While polka-dot rain boots and costume jewelry had been exchanged for jeans and comfy star patterned sweatshirts, she still wore her beautiful smile. From the moment I first saw Dani, I loved her, and as I faded away from this plane of existence, reduced to little more than an image sent adrift, I know one thing would never change. I will always love her.
Written by Naomi
Owl Things Considered 