I suppose I should work harder at having female friends, at least. Then I could go out and do things with someone. But in spite of my great desire for intimacy, I’ve always been a loner. Perhaps when the longing for connection is as strong as it is in me, when the desire is for something so deep and true, one knows better than to try. One sees that this is not the place for that.

When I was seven, my mother once arranged for someone to come over and play with me—a new neighbor had a daughter my age. The little girl came over, I played with her in my room for about fifteen minutes, then told her—nicely, I thought—“Go home, now.” Despite my mother’s embarrassed urgings, I refused to do anything but sit on the steps and wait for the girl to leave. My mother apologized profusely to the girl’s mother when she came to collect her daughter. After they left, she brought me into the living room and sat me on the sofa. “Shame on you, Myra,” she said. “Shame! What’s the matter with you? Didn’t you like that little girl?” I remember thinking, Why did she ask me that? Of course I liked her. There was just nothing more to do. We were all done. But I didn’t say that. I knew it was the wrong answer, and I didn’t know the right one. Instead, I sat staring at my lap, counting my breaths in, waiting for her to make some noise of disgust and go back to cleaning. It took four breaths. I remember, because that was the number it usually took for her to give up on me again.

Things didn’t improve much. Teachers’ comments on my elementary school report cards regularly offered variations on a theme: Myra is a pleasant child but spends too much time alone. Plays alongside, not with, other children.

I guess what I believe is that, for some of us, things end up fitting best inside just one soul. Maybe it’s genetic, maybe it’s environmental, maybe it’s just rationalization, who knows.

On my walks, I like to hear the sound of my sneakers against the earth; I like to linger where I want for however long I want; the things that mean the most to me are simply not translatable. In the autumn, I look up into the paint-box trees and can only sigh and feel the pleasant ache that such a glorious sight brings. What would I say to a friend? “Look. Aren’t the trees pretty?”