I’ve never believed in imaginary friends, but I still had one growing up. His name was Benji, and much like his existence, his name wasn’t my choice. You see, when I got to be about six years old, my mother disappeared and my father went through a real rough time. He slept a lot, cried when he thought I couldn’t hear, and lost thirty pounds from sadness and worry. Then one day, when I came inside for dinner, I saw a third plate at the table.
For one bright moment, I thought that Mama had found her way back to us after nearly a year. I asked and saw my father's face crumple slightly. No, he replied thickly. That plate was for my friend Benji. When I asked who Benji was, my father acted surprised. He explained that Benji was my invisible best friend who would always be there for me. Who would never leave my side.
I was seven by then, and while still a little kid, I was well past believing in invisible playmates. But I was also old enough to see how much my father was hurting, and that, for some strange reason, having Benji around seemed to make things a little better. Over the years, I came to understand it was probably just his warped way of reassuring himself that I’d never be alone the way that he was.
Outside of the two of us, no one knew about Benji. I didn’t bring friends home—instead I always went to their house to sleep over or hang out. When I got to college, my father would always ask how Benji was doing when I called, and I would always tell him he was doing fine. You know Benji, up to his old tricks. And I could hear the relief in my father’s reply. The peace I was giving him with this odd family ritual.
The last ritual I shared with my father was his funeral two weeks ago. I kept a seat empty next to me, the black “reserved” placard marking Benji’s place. I was filled with sad anxiety as I walked out of the graveyard an hour later. Silly as it might seem, I felt like I was losing not only my father, but Benji as well.
A middle-aged woman approached me as I neared my car. She said she was my distant cousin, and she had come all the way from Maryland for the funeral, though she’d only made it to the graveside. She said she was sorry for my loss. That my family had been so burdened with loss over the years. My father, my mother, all the way back to my brother. My brother Benji that died when I was a baby.
I tell you this because I want you to know that I know who you are even if I don’t know what you are. You’re my brother. My friend.
And you wouldn’t hurt your friend.
Right?
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