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.