My imaginary friend Priscilla

One of my childhood games involved assigning personalities to numbers. I had whole stories and relationships worked out between the numbers 1 – 10. 6 and 8 were girls, best friends, who wanted nothing more than to hang out with 10, who was the George Clooney of numbers, cool, kind, and smart. 7 was the rebel loner, who did his own thing and didn’t interact with the others. 6 & 8 didn’t like 9, who was close—so close—to 10, but in the end, just wasn’t the same. 5 had a mad crush on 6, but she found him annoying. She tolerated his friend, 4, but only because he could get her to 10. The whole thing sounds to me now like an extended episode of “Freaks and Geeks”. When I was a little girl, I had curtains in my bedroom that had a ruffled edge. My mother always referred to this style as “Priscilla” curtains, and I always wondered who Priscilla was and why she had curtains named after her. The only Priscillas I knew of were Priscilla Alden and my mother’s cousin Priscilla. Neither of these women seemed to have anything particularly curtain-related going on in their lives. I would lie in my bed, looking at the outline of the ruffle against the backdrop of the window shade behind the curtain. I imagined I could see the silhouettes of faces there—often an old woman or a man with a big nose and beard. I would make up stories about their lives and imagine conversations between them. Having recently bought a new house, I decided to buy some new curtains to replace the faded and fragile drapes the previous owner had left behind. For my bedroom, I turned back to those nostalgic curtains, the Priscillas, which fit well with my old-fashioned furniture. Now again, I can lie in bed and look for friendly faces among the ruffles.