A Dimming of the Lights

beautiful things were not long for this world,

or so she believed when her beautiful mother—

an opera singer of renown by trade—

fell from a balcony to the lake below,

her red dress spun out in a shroud.

but still the stage called to her,

from the crush on her music teacher

to the open audition for the school play

and even to the theater camp she paid for

by working late shifts at a fancy restaurant.

she was not the ingenue or the prodigy,

but someone quite “midlist” in a way

because she never got a starring role

and usually worked behind the scenes

rather than have even a speaking role.

but still she persisted, hungry for praise,

until the day she would play Ophelia—

no Juliet, she knew, but still a heady role—

and she would hear nothing of parties

as she practiced night after night.

when she closed her eyes and imagined

how it would be to stand in the shoes

of a tragic girl, so misguided in a sense,

she found herself shaking and wondering

just how close could she be to a role.

but still the show went on, the production

barely scraping by with ticket sales,

and her time as the drowned maiden

became just another footnote in her life,

what felt like a wasted opportunity.

it shouldn’t have mattered—

there would be other roles—

but walking the bridge at night,

she stared down into the recesses

and felt herself drawn to the murkiness.

but still she had promised herself,

don’t be your mother’s daughter,

and stepping back was hard to do—

though she managed and ran home,

cold tremors quaking through her body.

if the stage would cost her her life,

she could not pursue it—

she would not pursue it—

and so she left it all behind,

her spotlight fading one last time.