Tiny thespians line the stage dressed as sunflowers and birds. Each one steps forward to recite the line. They shuffle back and fuss with their costumes. One kid picks his nose.
Always, they sing while the accompanist mouths the words for them. She exaggerates her smile to remind them to be happy while they sing. During rehearsal, she would actually pull the edges of her mouth up, as if she knew she needed to smile, but just couldn't form one right now, at the end of the day. The children are tired and she cannot carry them through rehearsal again. The cannot remember their lines. They always mess up the tempo of the bridge.
But they have made it to this night, the one performance they will conduct. The children play at plays, are not made to suffer of course, the way their grownup, professional counterparts do. They will play to a captive audience who will love them regardless--no because of--the flubbed lines and the ill-timed giggles.
In auditoriums across every state, children squirm backstage, in the wings. Children of farmers and nurses, children of HR specialists and children of flight attendants, of weight lifters and veterinarians, they all ready themselves for their brief moment on stage, when they appear to their parents as someone else or something else. They listen for their parents' voices among all the voices, scan for their faces among all the faces. Are you out there? Will you know me? This is all the brave I have.
No comments:
Post a Comment