Sometimes, I don’t know who is my best friend.  Sometimes, my best friend is LoLa, an Italian girl who lives in a house around the corner, a Victorian with a creamy-colored rooftop, spirally like an ice cream cone.  We hold hands, skip along Elm Street, to our first-grade class at St. Mary’s school.

Sometimes, my best friend is our grey-striped tomcat, Twinkles.  Behind Joshu’s rocking chair, on the upstairs porch, I crouch and stroke him as he lay still at my feet.

“God, why are Daddy and Mom so mean to me?  What did I do wrong?  Why don’t they love me?”

His big, gray eyes glue to my eyes, he listens, twitches a peaked ear, and his soft, sweet, friendship assuages little girl talk of confusion, prayer, and tears.