Once I get to know my mammoth, I find I like her. She presents as a threat, or so I perceive, but she is a big softy inside. I know about this presenting thingy, I do it myself, always upbeat, the cheerful one, the clown to smile away another’s sadness whilst my own nudges against my outer limits like there’s a whole me in there, longing to be seen, heard and acknowledged. It thinks me. However, thinking is not an action unless I I give it full attention, unless I sort the melodrama and sentimental tiddleypom from the core truth of my thinks. Hiding who I really am is often required and even appropriate at times, out there in the world. Was I to moan out my inner angst at, say, a birthday celebration for a friend, everyone would be stultified, embarrassed and at a loss for words. A meltdown on the 10 am ferry crossing would spoil the day for many folk, leaving them feeling emotionally confused and full of questions as to how I feel, at our next encounter. So, like you, I present as if my exterior is a perfect match for my core truth.

However, and there is always one of those, this can become an unhealthy way to live, this cover up choice, until even I, and in private, do not acknowledge how I really feel inside, desperate to fit in to the shape I ‘appear’ to have, and for all my life. My mammoth, who is fast becoming a good friend, has literally softened as I sit before her hugeness, her tusks, not to mention that, unless she budges, I will never see my sitting room again. We talk. She teaches me about her as I teach her about me. Our languages are not the same and we both need to learn. Sometimes we say more to each other by saying nothing at all, just watching, using eye contact, body language and smiles. It is hard for a mammoth to smile, yes, but, as you know, a true smile is really seen in the eyes, a true one, that is, for we can all turn up our mouths, in rictus, in grimace, and it means nothing if it doesn’t reach our eyes. Eventually, we communicate through thought in sentences that wind, like ribbons, into a flow.

Over days and evenings, we grow closer. She reminds me of my inner self and I suggest to her that she doesn’t need to roar quite so much, and at everything, because listening is key in this world. Sometimes we listen for so long that one of us needs to check the other hasn’t died in the process. She tells me that to feel broken and beaten down is okay. But to feel unheard and unseen as the true person I am, even if my presenting as the world expects me to present has dulled my wits somewhat means I must take action. I bristle, a little, at that, even as I know she is right. So what is the answer, I ask her. She watches me watching her, our eyes locked. Ah, she says, we need to be friends. We are friends! She nods that gigantic head and suddenly I laugh at the ridiculous scene, me on the floor, she taking up the whole sofa, a mammoth in my home, a huge and hairy mammoth! She, sort of, laughs too, but its more of a forest shaking roar that blows my short hair into spikes, knocks over the candles and rattles the window. We must be friends for ever, she says, once we all calm down and I have checked the window for damage and righted the candles. Any time you are not paying attention to whom you really are, being open and honest about it, mostly to yourself, I will block your doorway, I will be your stop-and-check checker. Ok, I say. And as I say this, I see her grow smaller, just a bit. She doesn’t seem to mind, so nor do I. After saying goodnight, watching her lie down to rest, I cover her considerably smaller body, with a big blanket against the chill of the dark hours. See you in the morning, I whisper, stroking her long soft coat.

Maybe, she says, her eyes closing.

In the morning, she is gone.