Margarita [Nostalgia/rich imagery]
She still dances. Not like the old days in the chorus line. But she waltzes every day. Back then, how it all was! The grease paint and innocence. She'd had a formal courtship with the footlights... time in the wings with the props and tension, sorting a dozen wooden chests of hired costumes for the big shows. And then the stage, how vast it all seemed. How dark the audience were...out there somewhere.
There was a war on. A straight-drawn line down the back of bare legs to mimic stockings. Lights off outside in the street to ward off a random enemy plane. Heightened excitement and camaraderie. A group of girls to march with. And Patrick. A different type of formal courtship. Alas that stands defeated. Time and life has stepped in to upturn that box of memories. But Patrick too saw the wings and conductor, the prompters and backdrops. They shared a love affair with velvet theatre seats, opening nights and dress rehearsal frights. They could laugh at it all walking up the hill, him buying her boiled pig's feet at Mrs Kielthy's house, half way up the town. She hadn't licked theatre off a stone.
Her Father had loved the must and damp of the place too. Loved then that his daughter was part of the picture. Did everything for shows. He would always be centre-stage for her. It was a small town but his thoughts were big city lights. And he, her father, is as alive in her mind now as when he passed almost fifty years ago.
And Patrick? He is not there. Their courtship? Gone. The memories? Gone. Home? Gone. The garden? Forgotten. But she loves a rose. It's perfume and silk skin. She is but a debutante going to the shows, sweet and loved and youthful in her mind. She has forgotten her losses and remembers only the beauty of youth.
And you can still waltz with her. She will take both your hands as long as you lead. Her footwork isn't what it used to be. She will follow you around the ground floor, knows those basic one-two-threes. Not every memory can be stolen.
There was a war on. A straight-drawn line down the back of bare legs to mimic stockings. Lights off outside in the street to ward off a random enemy plane. Heightened excitement and camaraderie. A group of girls to march with. And Patrick. A different type of formal courtship. Alas that stands defeated. Time and life has stepped in to upturn that box of memories. But Patrick too saw the wings and conductor, the prompters and backdrops. They shared a love affair with velvet theatre seats, opening nights and dress rehearsal frights. They could laugh at it all walking up the hill, him buying her boiled pig's feet at Mrs Kielthy's house, half way up the town. She hadn't licked theatre off a stone.
Her Father had loved the must and damp of the place too. Loved then that his daughter was part of the picture. Did everything for shows. He would always be centre-stage for her. It was a small town but his thoughts were big city lights. And he, her father, is as alive in her mind now as when he passed almost fifty years ago.
And Patrick? He is not there. Their courtship? Gone. The memories? Gone. Home? Gone. The garden? Forgotten. But she loves a rose. It's perfume and silk skin. She is but a debutante going to the shows, sweet and loved and youthful in her mind. She has forgotten her losses and remembers only the beauty of youth.
And you can still waltz with her. She will take both your hands as long as you lead. Her footwork isn't what it used to be. She will follow you around the ground floor, knows those basic one-two-threes. Not every memory can be stolen.
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