Maurice ’85/’91

In 1985 my mother left with Kahlil Gibran, her piano, and the ice-cold brain food she had served on a daily basis. What remained was my elderly father, a smaller house in the village, and suddenly — space.

I stopped cycling thirty kilometres to school. I was tired of doing what was good for me.

The village had a mixed crowd: Dutch kids, Moluccan kids, and the friction between them that nobody named out loud. I slid in sideways, as I always did — too educated for one, too otherworldly for the other. Tall, blonde, blue-eyed and from somewhere else even when I was standing still.

That afternoon I saw him across the group. A few years older. German-Moluccan, which meant he belonged to neither camp either. The rebellion was written in his posture and the coolness — God, he was handsome.

We ended up at his place. I lost what I didn’t realise I possessed.

Not long after, Ghostbusters premiered and he told me on the cinema stairs that he liked someone else better. His older sister found me weeping on the steps and tried to console me.

I.Ph.

The rest of Maurice is on Ream.

https://reamstories.com/phaedrasfables/public

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