There is a short story by Ray Bradbury called “Remember Sascha?”. I found the story inside my ten cent copy of Quicker than the Eye that I’d bought at some second-hand shop years ago and felt oddly touched by the story of a young, romantic couple carrying on conversations with their unborn child, if only because I’ve been doing something quite similar for years.
Having been born with a genetic disorder, sex and having children is something that can never be spontaneous for me, for if I was to be in the family way I can end up sick and potentially die. Not to mention passing the disorder on. Lots of people have told me that I mustn’t worry or that I’m more than equipped to take care of a child with a disorder I’m familiar with, but I’m not sure I agree. There are so many variables. I’m afraid to have children, so I made one up.
His name is Ezra, and I know him as well as if he was real. It sounds mad, but I’m sure I’m sane—just a bit lonesome. In my mind, his hair changes color, but it’s always cut in a lopsided bowl-cut. He wears thick glasses, asks “why” way too much, and when he laughs, it crescendos into a high-pitched shriek.
I think the possibility of Ezra a lot, and the impossibility of him, too. Afterwards, I get up and continue on my day.