Karen and me

As I sit on the bench waiting for my train, a little girl plonks herself next to me. She starts fiddling around with her little bag. Its a pink shiny purse with a Winnie the Pooh on it. And then I remembered her.



When I was eight my father's friend and family came to visit us from London. Karen was the same age as me. But to me my eight year old eyes she was this sophisticated big city girl. As her official guide around my farm, her every move fascinated me. Her shiny pink purse, the way she shook her satin ribboned plaits in disgust, her look of horror when she realized my farm did not have blackberries and more - kept me glued to her side. She was a far cry from the giggly girls and hooligan boys in my class.

At the end of the week Karen and her parents left. On the drive back from the railway station I experienced a new emotion - the feeling of missing someone.However like all children I soon forgot all about her and got busy with school. Sitting on the bench that day was the first time in years I remembered her. At that moment I also realized that it had been quite some time since I experienced missing someone. Living on my own in more ways than one I have gotten used to farewells that are are most often sudden. As my train arrives screeching to a halt, it hits me that I am far less emotionally sensitive than I was. As I board my train I am still wondering if that is a good thing or bad.