Hiraeth

Today, a woman died.

It was nothing very newsworthy, it would never be anything more than a paid obituary, a kind mention in a local newspaper published two weeks too late. But she would never have expected otherwise.

Her neighbor – who relied on her too often to babysit her children – found that the woman was not opening the door even at 12:00 p.m. She knocked once, twice, dismissed a negative thought and knocked again. And then she called for help. When the door was wrenched open, the old woman was found sleeping in her bed, tucked into white quilts she would have despised at a younger age, and she would remain sleeping for the rest of her life.

No husband. No children. No family.

Her walls were old, plastered with older newspaper clippings that grew shorter and more infrequent as the dates progressed. They said good things about her, flattering things – one even called her “The Next Big Thing.” (These words were highlighted, circled, slashed through). This was perhaps the best article of all – the longest, the most optimistic, the most incorrect.

She was a “cliched struggling artist who caught her break when, in an even more cliched fashion, the main actress fell ill a night before the opening show. The anxious understudy didn’t just save the show, she stole it. She gave life to a complex, layered character that few can do justice to. There’s no doubt of a brighter future ahead, something awakened in her today.”

Something did indeed awaken in her that day.

Me.

It happens sometimes, an idea of a character becomes its own energy, own spirit. I remember stirring in her mouth, just as she spoke her first dialogues – she had never practiced me quite that way before – too timid perhaps, but that day, she had no choice.

She called on every ounce of energy she had and gave birth to me in the process, gave me a form -I strengthened as her emotion grew, wriggling up her throat to look through her eyes, before slipping into her ribs. I felt her breathe. I breathed with her.

So that’s what it meant to be alive.

There was no stopping after that. We moved together, shouted together, saw, heard, smelled, tasted, touched together.

When performances end, characters fade, dissipate. I lingered a little longer that day – on the walls of the auditorium, in the minds of the people.

The reporter of the article was wrong for multiple reasons. The woman who gave life to me never got the chance to again. She rushed to take care of her ailing father, and after that, theatre never completely welcomed her back. Many tried to carry me after her, but no one got it right – though a good lot pretended. They play me with a wistfulness now, a mourning for something that’s lost, a sadness for something unknown. A longing for a home that’s gone forever.

But none of them know who it was.