The Color of Contrivance
As a young girl, she had two imaginary friends.
Sleeping bags were magic carpets.
Books transported her where a passport could not.
She dreamed of being an eagle, flapping her arms and emitting caws.
The neighbors thought she was rehearsing for a bit part as a crow.
From the thread worn recliner, she reminisces.
Her pace has slowed,
yet her imagination somersaults and skips ahead.
She sips from her husband’s favorite mug,
placing her lips where his once were.
Her rheumy eyes spy the moist silhouette the cup imprinted on the table.
With a shaky ring finger, dipped in the condensation,
she traces a lopsided heart around the image.
A heavy sigh ruptures the silence.
She shifts, observing the world outside.
A tangerine balloon rimmed in a halo, pokes through the four-board fencing.
Two fickle horses step over it, not noticing it.
As it ascends, it warms her face, illuminating a lifetime of creases.
In the middle of the living room, in the middle of winter, her imagination keeps her company.
A dark cloud becomes a lone battleship chugging across the murky sea.
On a collision course.
Petulant clouds eclipse.
The sun retreats.
She waves her Kleenex, a feeble surrender.
The horses startle at the movement.
They had moved in closer, foraging in the scarce leaves of grass.
The black and the gray lift their heads.
Ears pointed forward.
They are on high alert, assessing whether they should bolt.
The black horse returns to his preoccupation.
She had nicknamed the other the 1,000 Pound Puppy.
The gray was looking her in the eye, his head framed in the diamond patterned window.
A girl’s best friend he mouthed.
The black and the gray meandered in search of sustenance.
The sun had climbed back in bed, burrowing under thick comforters.
From horizon to zenith, the sky was desolate.
The world was cloaked in a shade of monotony.
But the dreary pallor is not what she saw.
And while her eyesight had deteriorated, her vision had not.
She saw the gifts that each sunrise imparted and replenished.
Each day she witnessed the renewal.
But now, despite the caffeine, her eyes grew heavy.
As she started to nod off, her handkerchief fluttered to the floor.
Her lone surviving imaginary friend bent down and gently placed it in her lap.
Authors note: this is one of my sunrise sonnets that blends a bit of speculative fiction. Ok, so it’s not a “sonnet” in the true sense of the word, but since “sonnet” sounds pretty, I’m going with it. When I was in middle school, I had two imaginary friends. I invented them because I was shy and lonely. And quirky. I often didn’t have weekend plans. When the cool kids were talking about what they did in their free time (recanting the number of books I read didn’t make me more interesting to my classmates), I spun tales of adventures that I had with my “other” friends. Since my other friends went to another school or had very busy schedules (one was in a band, the other traveled frequently), nobody found it unusual that they never met them.
I named my imaginary friends Tony Martini and Melanie Throgmorten. As a 13 year old, the name Tony Martini sounded cosmopolitan, worldly, and handsome. And I described Melanie as sweet, smart, and very popular. She had long blonde hair that she’d casually flip over her shoulder; Melanie was unaware of her natural beauty. I remember seeing a street sign for Throgmorten Street and thinking it would be a perfectly hideous name to complement my gorgeous friend.
Oh, and the eagle part? When I was 5 years old, I told my older brother that I wanted to be an eagle when I grew up. He encouraged me to flap my arms frequently and I’d probably learn how to fly.
When I think back to my young imaginative mind or read over my diaries and the stories that I’d write, that young weird author still makes me laugh out loud.
