Each day, every day, the curtain goes up on their one act play.
The early morning hush is broken by her voice, “are you coming to walk with me?”
He rubs sleep from his eyes and answers, “yes, I’m coming.”
The blind man and his demented wife have said these lines well over one thousand times. The play, a new day, begins again.
They make the bed, dress, go out for their morning walk. She babbles on about family and friends who no longer come to see her. His mind drifts about, from birdsongs to the sunshine’s warmth, affirming as needed-
“Yes, I love you.”
“Yes, everyone is well.”
“Yes, it is a beautiful day.”
They stop to sit on a bench, inhaling fresh sea air, soaking up tranquility. He hears a distant train, a nearby bird.
She asks again, “do you love me?”
“I will always love you.”
Inseparable, they walk on, greeting passersby. She coos to babies, stoops to pet dogs, fills the world with smiles. They shop, bank, deal with life’s necessities, then climb the hill for home.
There are meals to make, chores to do. These done, they sit at their desks, soft music playing. She whistles happily, coloring simple designs, her way of making beauty. Content in this peaceful bubble, he writes, seeking beauty with words.
“Look!” she pleads, confronting him with her finished pages.
“Wow!” he exclaims, blind to her colors but seeing her needs.
Later, she gets bored, and they go back out into the larger world, stop for coffee or ice cream, chat with neighbors, then climb the hill again.
Sometimes there are cameo appearances, short lived visits from family or friends. The script changes little. The show has even gone on the road, played for months in other towns, but the actors returned to the stage they loved best.
Day darkens and, holding hands, they wander down to the overlook,. She surveys their community, their town, and describes the people scurrying about on Main Street, the sailboats flying by on the distant water, the colors of the clouds above.
They hug and kiss and head home.
The curtain falls. No ovations, no encores, no flowers tossed upon the stage.
As I lie in bed, waiting for the bliss of sleep, the day’s scenes play again, the smells, the sounds, the precious moments when she was happy.
She is the only audience I care about.
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