Theatre Night

For a long time, I went to bed early. I was so eager to fall asleep and see them again. They were my favorite dreams. But not after long, I began to think they were somehow real. Or maybe I believed in them too much.

There’s one who is tall and so pretty. The other is old and wrinkled, but her smile and squinting eyes lift her face into an aged beauty. They look like they could be related with their dark waves and sharp eyes. My dark waves and eyes. They call me Little Sister.

“You’ve made it!” the older one says. She holds her arms wide over an ornately decorated box that sits just beyond her lap.

The pretty one inclines her head and smiles at me. “Come and look.”

I scoot forward on my knees, at bit embarrassed at my inelegance, wondering what’s in the box. Both women seem nice enough, but even at my innocent age of nine I knew appearances were not always to be trusted. But the gilded box with its carved trimmings just seemed so inviting. I bend over it to the relic’s detail. I’m taken aback when it opens up, wide like the woman’s arms. Two front panels swing to the sides to reveal a little stage. I feel its golden light touch my face. A beautifully painted scene plays backdrop on the caramel wood stage. Two limp puppets lay on wooden furniture. That of which occupies the family room.

I awake and sleep fitfully for years, never reaching any farther than that point of the dream. I start to think of them as my older sister and my grandmother. I’ve never met any sisters or grandmothers before, but I’ve seen them. Shopping, picking kids up from school, at the library. I wonder what that’s like. I soon forget the dreams as I grow up and become busy with other things. One night I went to bed early. A well deserved rest after finally getting caught up. I’m 19 now, and surely I will be busy tomorrow.

I’m there with the old woman. The puppet stage is open in front of me, and the two puppets still lay inside. She asks me, “Who are they?”

I have no idea. I pick them up, one in each hand. Even though I know they are made of wood, it feels unholy to hold them with their limbs spilling between my fingers. Their necks fall back impossibly far, their heads swiveling back and forth.

A little girl is there, too. “Big sister,” she calls. “Come and play.”

Every night I act out a new scene for them. There are new puppets with new names. I know it’s just a dream, but I want to keep the little sister happy. She and the old woman watch me with smiling faces.

Those dreams stop as suddenly as they started. I miss them sometimes, and am reminded of them every day. Little things I hear in coffee shops and stores. People say things the puppets have said in the dreams. Things I have said in the dreams. Little girls and old women with dark hair and eyes. We hold gaze for a little longer than friendly strangers should.

Time flies and flies. I had a career, a husband, children, grandchildren, and now a great-grandchild on the way. One day I awoke with my skin wrinkled and hands frail. I’m 90 now, and I only have one more dream.

I sit in front of an ornate box, arms wide to welcome Little Sister. Big Sister gingerly picks up the puppets and examines them, thinking of a new scene. She puts on a grand show and Little Sister smiles. I am Grandmother. When it is over I say to the girls, “Come, let us shut up the box and the puppets, for our play is played out.”