LIFE IS HAVING A FAITHFUL FRIEND

Henry the Hedgehog

Is my devoted writing assistant

All the literati keep An imaginary friend.

W. H. Auden

How do the words come Working, writing day by day Blank pages, empty screen stare

I have a secret Henry is there, my helper He demolishes the blocks

“I think the quote at the start of this story is a bit pretentious. I’m not sure it captures the right tone. It makes you seem self-important and me just a secondary character. When, of course, the story is all about me,” advises my friend, Henry.

“You’re sounding a bit pompous, Henry,’’ I reply.

Huffily, he says, “Don’t make fun of me. I see that wordplay. I’m trying to help you achieve the proper tone.”

“Another suggestion, Susannah. Keep the story consistent. You make unexpected leaps in space and time. It can be quite confusing. Not everyone is a Doctor Who devotee, who has also spent decades reading about alternate realities and time travel.”

“It wouldn’t hurt you to be more realistic, down to earth, and straightforward occasionally,” Henry continues.

“Says my pinecone hedgehog writing assistant. Where do you fit into my straightforward reality? Any room there for so-called imaginary friends?” I ask.

Silence fills the room.

Following the example of Merriam-Webster, who pretends to be a book when he thinks my Appalachian avatar, Susannah Stewart, has bested him in a disagreement, Henry stares back at me, unblinking and motionless, doing his best imitation of a folksy handicraft, a pinecone shaped to resemble a hedgehog (though he sometimes claims to be a porcupine instead, because of his flat nose).

There is no point in arguing with him now. I will thin the dry daylily foliage in my garden for a couple of hours. Then he should be ready for us to resume writing.

Today Henry bemoaned that I had never featured him in a story. So I wrote one. My dear hedgehog welcomed his starring role, though he quibbled about my “smart-alecky” attitude.

His discontent erupted when Henry spotted Patrick M. Ohana’s poem as I read on the desktop computer in my office.

I hope Henry remains his usual self and does not show up in my dreams, evilly transformed and taking vengeance.

Last night, the alligators featured in my Tales For Naughty Children story, Nymph, appeared in my dreams as bright green reptilian men who chased me up the walls of an abandoned factory in a dystopian wasteland. They climbed so effortlessly, like King Kong scaling the Empire State building. And I was no Spider-Man.

The poem is a wannabe mondo, with the question and answer presented in two 5–7–7 syllable stanzas.