I walk down the aisle and take my seat in darkness.
I sit alone, unsure if I’m on time. Perhaps I’m early. Or worse yet, late.
A breeze passes through my hair, pushing the clouds aside.
The new moon enters and peers through a break in the clouds spreading its sliver of light downward and out to seamlessly surround me. An all-inclusive spotlight casting its glow.
As the sunlight pushes its way through my Venetian blinds each morning to line my dreams with clarity, the moonlight slides through the slatted bench I’m seated on to fragment my awakened senses.
Memories of the day move through the shadows too quickly to be examined. They hide from my eyes between the barren tree and stone memorial to a war’s victims.
Traces of distinctions.
The fountain behind me is an understudy to the clouds. Water drips into its concrete basin. Held, drained, and dripped again.
The moon pulls back behind its curtain, turning off the stage light.
Darkness embraces the moon and echoes its lines.
There is no applause.
I was neither early nor late.
I stay on the set in the unfinished scene.
Unable to bow out gracefully.
I keep coming back to this theater of disparate acts. I find no meaning until I impose one, and I keep meaning to…
But then a breeze blows again.
And I blow with it.
By Marge Swartz
Copyright – Marcie Swartz 2003