Friend Of my Imagination
As it Began . . .
Friend, on the door of my imagination you did knock, that first cold spring morning, so many years ago.
You were standing on my front porch in you cut off shorts, high top shoes and old t-shirt. A flannel tied around your waist and your long red hair blowing in the early morning breeze, I greeted you, wondering from whence you came.
"I'm looking for a place for my younger brother," you stated, before I could ask. "He is seven, and we are going to be in the area on occasion."
I welcomed you into my home, which was also a daycare, still wondering what you were doing there, at the door of my imagination.
As I cared for children and kept the place clean, you wandered around, inspecting everything.
You saw my stereo, in the corner of the room, and decided my CDs were worth thumbing through. The questions you asked took on little meaning. How was I to answer you? This figment of my imagination...
In time you left. No decision had been made. I wondered if you little brother was any more real than you, but the next day, you came again.
Again you wandered around, asking questions. None too personal, none too meaningful. I answered, as best I could, and wondered, from whence you came.
Then, one day, I asked your name.
"You know me," was all you said.
How could I know this stranger, who knocked at my door? How could I find out a little bit more?
. . . And Then I Saw Him . . .
Then one day, as through some pictures I went, I saw him... The figment of my imagination had been captured on film, but the picture was from many years ago. Could it really be the boy who came to visit me?
And then, he came no more...
A man showed up at my door. The door of my imagination...
He was older and somewhat refined. Slip on leather shoes that showed a liking for finer things, groomed, with a gentleman's face. In front of him was a dark-haired boy, with an ornery face. He said, "This is my seven year old son, heard you have room in your daycare"
I welcomed him in, and asked that he fill out some paperwork. He sent the boy to play, and at my table did stay. His auburn hair combed neatly into place.
At my table he did stay, and talked through out the day. Talked of life and love, and the sky above, until it was time for him to be on his way.
Day after day, he came, and dropped his son off to play, but never left him here to stay. He sat at my table, while I cooked and cleaned and cared for children. He asked questions, and spoke little of his life. It seemed to be a subject he wished to avoid.
Was this the father of the boy in the picture, or was this the boy, grown to be a man?
He gave me no name, save the indication, that we had met before.
Being a snoop, I took matters into my own hands, to find out more about this man. If he was the boy, grown to be a man, then finding a current picture of him was of first command.
I knew the boys name, but little else. I had an idea, from whence he'd come, and little about the man, save the look on his face -- indescribable and unique. If I could find a picture of the man's face with the name of the boy attached, the mystery would be solved, and this stranger no longer just a figment of my imagination.
The search was on, the man to find. Or prove once and forever, that I really was out of my mind. Calling on the advantages of modern resources, I made a thorough search. The name of the boy, I did find, and sure enough, it was attached to a picture of the man. I didn't have to guess anymore, as to this figment of my imagination. The look on his face proved it him, as sure a forensic evidence.
. . . And It Continued . . .
Now that I knew you you were, Oh Friend of my Imagination, the relationship did take a different turn. You spoke in earnest, of the things that were bothering you...
I waited for you to really show up at my door...
Not just in my imagination.
We seemed to be at a standstill, and more sleuthing revealed that you did not have a seven year old son. What kind of fool had I been, to let you in?
You continued to knock. I said, "Go away. If you want to talk to me, come in person, so I can see that you are who you say!"
You sent messages, telling me that you were real, but that you couldn't come 'cept in a dream. Couldn't I please accept you still?
My friend, my dear friend, I want to know why you would deceive me? What was with the child you brought along, for so long? Why wasn't he real?
Then you reminded me, that dreams have their own way of saying certain things, and that the child had been so very real, but not a little boy.
Projects, they show up as children in dreams. Things that need coaxed and coddled and cared for. You showed me that he had matured and been let go. Still your child, but his own, for all the world to see.
My dear friend, a diamond in the rough tho art, but a true Gem, all the same!
. . . Still He Came . .
Friend continued to come on a regular basis. He would sit and talk, for hours on end. He questioned my way of life, what I believed, and why. He watched to see how it played out in real life.
Occasionally his friends would stop by.
There would be a knock at the door of my imagination, and when I answered, they would ask, "Is he here? He said he might be."
In I would welcome them, to join in this party of the imagination. They they would leave... content with the visit they had had.
One friend, he seemed disturbed until he was safe inside my door, spoke with my Gem for a moment, then turned to go.
Through the door, he saw demons. Demons that frightened him... Demons that had not been let inside my home.
He spun around, in anguish. "Who are they?" He demanded.
"Your demons," I replied.
"My what?!" He shouted.
"Your demons. They are not allowed in here." He left by a different door.
. . . And Still He Comes . . .
Copyright (c) Ivorwen 2009
More by this Author
Historical books tell of pioneers making a tea from pine needles in order to keep their children fed during harsh winter condition in the Rocky Mountains, when food supplies had run low. I have always wondered, did they...
I was in the third grade when we ran into some "Little Willie" poems, by Harry Graham They were unlike anything we had heard before, and we could hardly believe they were in books put together by adults. We...
"Good friends, good books and a sleepy conscience: this is the ideal life." -- Mark Twain A while ago I compiled some of my favorite friendship quotes for a friend who was feeling down. After reading...