Tuesday, April 5, 2011

One More Time


Not my photo

Beyond the window I sit at, the one thing that feeds me dreams, when I look up from my work computer, is the old theatre. The last soprano made her mark there, cracking leather chairs, corroding brass and withering velvet. A note once so beautiful echoed goodbye to painted set pieces and a towns imagination.

A van drove up and out the left door stepped a woman wearing white overhauls and a pink baseball cap. She fiddles at the lock on the theatre door for a bit and then, with a crow bar opens the door. She enters and exits the building many times as I input numbers into Excel. At lunch she sits with a beer and a homemade sandwich.

So I take my lunch over and introduce myself, ask what she is doing.

“I’ve been retired for a year and needed a project. My husband suggested I redo the theatre, he was joking of course, but I took him up on it. Come in.”

Inside, as I looked around, I thought about all the art that would have happened in the building, of all the times I went with my friends to movies or plays or concerts. All the times I had ever run up the isles of a posh theatre in my bare feet.

I thought about how I was like an old theatre. And how like this one woman I am entering my insides and one inch at a time making it better for people to visit again. Soon I will be sending out invitations to the first show.

“I thought it be great if I could sing here one more time.” She said.

1 comment:

  1. Wonderful post, Frosty! Thank goodness people like the woman you described aren't one-in-a-million. Nearly, but not quite!

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