When Sam was little, she strung strings from her closet to her desk. She made tiny paper soldiers, each with a tactical gun, and attached them to the strings and sent them down the zip lines to rescue her. As an adult, when we were dating, she showed me
(more) one of the soldiers resting in her palm but still ready for action.
Sometimes I think I know something about a person and then later, usually much later, realize I know nothing at all. When Sam showed me the origami soldier and told me she'd filled her room with them, it should have meant more to me. "You," I might have said, "must have felt overwhelmed by a circumstance. Can you tell me?" TELL being the operative word.
Sam said she played with the soldiers for hours--by herself. I imagine her playing silently. I can see the brownness of her eyes, intent. Another soldier made. Attached. Sent down the line. How did she attach them? She is a smart woman. Had to be a smart child, possibly made even more brilliant by whatever she faced. "I played until I was called down for supper," she said," and then swaggered off towards her dogs and her kitchen. We never talked about her soldiers again.
When loneliness strikes, really fills me, I review the people I have rejected, the possible mistakes I have made in rejecting them. I think today how could I have rejected someone, however angry she was, who had once played with paper soldiers in a game she invented all herself? The trouble is I don't remember her last name, only that she had a name she used to say sounded "like a movie star." I can't find her, just this small memory.
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