Maurice the Imaginary

I imagined him (I have no right to utter this sacred verb for only one person was truly capable and he has ceased to live under his very imaginations) as bright and true, a wide smile warping his face like a moon’s progression through lunar phases, wrapped in  radiant hues of turquoise and opal - colors so brilliant, they challenge every boundary of possibility and dazzle every onlooker - and with movement alike of a Goddess’ descent upon Earth from her glorious heavens, her robes like the graceful sails of a ship. Nothing, however, could compare to the works - scenes unthinkable, unimaginable and utterly unreal to everyone but him - that poured from his lips (I now come to realize I have never seen his face, only his lips). Maurice had the imagination of a kaleidoscope, the prospects and promise of anything was everything and his mind was a world, whirling and bursting with ideas that transcended and defied every law of this Earth, on its own. 

He was lying in a field of simple leafless trees (it was nearing winter) and soft, long and slightly browned grass, staring up into the sky, which was not, in the very least, blue but so condensed with clouds that it appeared to be a mass of empty white space. I sat a yard or two away, afraid to come too close that I’d disturb him and waited. An hour passed - it felt closer to a year - before Maurice opened his eyes and turned to me and began to speak; he was unperturbed by nightfall and I was far too hypnotized by his fantasies to even glance at a clock or imagine anything that might be more important than the present, of staying and listening and devouring every word that Maurice could make.

I left the next day - my brothers had come looking - and did not see Maurice again (I was sent abroad to study with my Nan, an extremely astute woman with no tolerance for whimsical balderdash) until eight entire years had passed and the town’s children were all very much adults. Hearing of his mother’s passing (the man who fathered him does not deserve even the courtesy of “dad” or “father” for he was and had never been around), I took it upon myself to swing by his home to pay my respects and see how Maurice was doing, so it gave me quite a start to see the old brown-brick house boarded up, nails falling here and there and shards of wood splintering, with one word in fearful, devilish red print that read “REPOSSESSED”. 

Boards creaking and quivering, I sat down on the front step, puzzling in uncertainty. Scenes of possibilities - a grieving Maurice, petrified, alone for the first time in his life - flashed through my mind. What could possibly have happened for such a misfortune to have befallen this man? I gritted my teeth and closed my eyes, fretting tirelessly. Night had just begun to fall when I stood, brushing sawdust - that left horrible prints - off my pants, to find him. 

He was in the very field of my first listening (the trees were full, loud and green and the grass, crunchy and fresh, smelled of summer), where my intuition had led me after my shock at the closed, dank house. His eyelids fluttered as my footsteps marked smiles into the ground and as if not a thing had changed since the day we were nineteen, romping and silly, he sang his same breathtaking song, yet it did not take my breath away. I sat and listened, but half my mind was on the home that he’d allowed to be taken away, his own reality surpassing him, the mother he’d let pass without a single legacy left to her memory and the days he spent, lying in a field, dreaming of other worlds. 

The boy - even nearing his thirties, he’s not been close to reaching his manhood - could imagine. Indeed, he could. He could paint stories and lives and wondrous adventures. 

I suspect though, he was not very capable of life.


  • Irene Krugman (Banned)
    Irene Krugman 2122 days ago

    "He could paint stories and lives and wondrous adventures." Yep, you can! Proud mama. 

    Hannah 2122 days ago

    Irene Krugman, thanks Mama Reney. I'm glad you liked it and I'm glad you're still on Spot!