When I was little I had an imaginary friend named Maple Greenlake.

Maple was always a good girl, I insisted.

She made her bed in the morning, she remembered to use her table manners not just at home but at school to. She used her skipping rope for skipping only and she never drew or wrote on the walls in our semi-finished attic I would tell  my Mom.

Maple wasn’t the one who played silly tricks on my brother or my Grandma when she came over to play I would say to my Dad.

She would never do things like  set fire under the apple tree in the backyard.

” So who does all of these naughty things? ” my Mom would ask when the cookies disappeared from the cookie jar before dinner, or all of the forks and glasses disappeared from the kitchen cupboard and ended up in the bathtub.

” I did ” I would insist, ” Maple isn’t a naughty girl. Ask her yourself. ” I  told  my parents on more then one occasion.

” Go on ask. She is standing right there behind you.”

My Mom would put her hand up to the back of her neck,  sometimes my Dad  would start to say something but didn’t.

But my parents never turned around to ask Maple if what I said was true.

I wonder why.

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