Props From Past Productions

Here, you’ll find that Mona is trying to wipe the blue from his skin. You’ll notice that she licks her fingertips, appearing quite silly, and rubs at his wrist, at his clenched hand. You’ll see that his shivers are palpable, creating a thick separation between them. It’s as if the pain of his experience now presents itself as a reverberating, breathing, shapeshifter, like its weight would need to buy a ticket if it ever wanted to ride the bus home. You’ll hear the fear and exhaustion in this moment. Here is where you’ll see the two of them in an empty white space, huddled, and also fostering the growth of their own desperate grief.

You’ll pause and think you have heard Mona say something, but she’s still pressing at his skin and merely muttering to herself. The uncertainty of her own movements and position carries her voice on this aimless ride; the sounds she makes are unattached and sporadic as she shifts and repositions herself close, and closer still, to his body.

His body.

You’ll instinctively want to regard him with only a vague sweep, but when you focus, you’ll observe that his eyes are still closed, squeezed tight. His legs are splayed on the snow in a manner that you’ll find upsetting. The whole of his being is so powerless, from the uncontrolled trembling, to the ghostly splotchiness of his skin, to the distorted way he lays upon the ground. If it weren’t for the angry force that exudes from him, you’d sense only the type of sparce coldness that one comes to know after encountering an empty seashell.

Now is when you’ll want to depart. Yet, you’ll stay. They’ll disappear from your sight if they are the ones to leave this clearing, if they walk away from this frozen pond. Amidst the snowy purgatory, the sky and embankment create a cloudy forever-and-ever type of enclosure around the two of them. There is beauty in the way they are comforted by this winter-land frame. You’ll feel distracted by this beauty, and briefly you’ll wonder if they are protected or they are trapped; will they ever realize they no longer belong here?

You’ll hear Mona speak with intention. “Any minute now. They’re coming.” She is still rubbing at his exposed skin.

He shudders. The eyes he has squeezed tight, those eyes that have beheld and then redesigned things so thoughtfully, they are a padlocked door containing a shaky resilience that bangs and booms.

Seemingly taking solace in the freedom of her uninterrupted voice within this white eternity, Mona continues. “I should have gone. I would’ve been faster.” She pats one hand down on his chest, and you’ll see that he is nearly consumed by her purple fleece jacket.

“After running back and forth a million times over, from here to home, I bet I could get back with my eyes closed.” You’ll catch a flash of anguish and regret burden her face before her expression returns to a default one of restrained panic. “I wish I could carry you.”

You’ll see that her movements are becoming more frantic, scrubbing and pawing at him as if she can dig right through his flesh, find where the warmth is kept, and free it.

“I never told you about the time, a few years ago,” Mona says. “When mom and I got home from a competition. I think I had done well that day, but she was just getting on me about my footwork sequence. And I saw you in your room. You were listening to music with your head tilted back and your eyes closed. It sounded like jazz. God, you were in another world. I watched you for maybe a full minute because you were buzzing with that music. You were on fire, all of you.” She touches your baby boy gingerly, introducing herself now to his ache.

The stillness of the clearing, of the private oasis where one of them grew and the other couldn’t quite touch, was made for solitude, not for the exploration of someone else. You’ll know it as Mona allows herself to know him.

The haze of the blanketed clearing distinguishes between what is contained and what is held. You can recognize your children and the inner workings of their wounds, but you cannot access them or feel their pain. You are rooted here, alone and heavy. And you’ll be rooted here forever, as long as they are in this space and dying in front of you.

Here, you’ll find your children chasing you. You’ll lead them nowhere if you stay.

Like the decrescendo of an avalanche, you’ll recall the sudden crack of the ice, the unleashed terror in your son’s voice, and you’ll see what lays behind them, overturned, because it has been there all along. Amidst the white canvas, you’ll see the wheelchair.

It is like a prop left on stage by the last production. It shatters this reality, just as the pond’s frozen seal broke under your son’s weight moments ago.

“Now that mom is gone, I can’t even land a toe loop,” Mona says, lips barely parting. “I just don’t know how my body is supposed to work. Maybe I was never in control of my own movements. It could’ve been her, could’ve been that I was just a continuation of her.” She appears to be struck by a thought. “You have never been broken. You’ve always made your own momentum, been free without leaving the ground or stepping on the ice. We were the ones who couldn’t reimagine it for you.”

He grabs her wrist, then. A jolt between them seems to smooth out their backdrop, as they become more defined, more of their own story, while the snow fades into itself.

Mona has stopped digging, and she says, “I’m so sorry.” She watches him, waits. “I feel her out here too, but I can’t lose you. Please hold on.”

You’ll be more than an audience member if you stay --more like a casting director. They can be free and autonomous if you leave. So, before the curtain call, you’ll decide that it’s time, because death did not force your hand before; now it’s the fragility of their lives, of the strength your son has when he is not damning his legs, but instead exploring his limitlessness.

You’ll sense the anger in him dwindling as you step away from the pond, from the clearing. The hurried footsteps approach, and you turn from the sound.

Here, you’ll leave them, as he opens his eyes.