boxed in

In theatre, we call “hold” to temporarily stop the action in a scene. Everyone goes silent and stays still until we make sure we are safe. Hold also means to cradle or grasp or carry. We are told not to hold. We hold tight to those we hold dear, but we also hold farther than arm’s length. We hold hands that are washed and washed. We hold still. Hold sounds like holed. Holed up. Hidden. Tucked away. Hold on, friends. Hold.

April 3rd would have been opening night for our show. I know we are all doing what we are supposed to. I know this is not important in the big workings of the world. But I don’t want to let the night fly past without taking a moment to acknowledge it. Sending extra love to our team, our cast, our crew, and our pit tonight. Drama Club members from the past, you get this. Once a member...always a member. Hold.

The above photos are from our virtual Drama Club Awards ceremony. Christy, Dawn, and I delivered candles, messages, and awards to our cast, crew, and pit. We held the candles to the screen. How could I not cry? How could I not?

Boxed In (Zoom)
I think
I am reduced to a box on a screen.
My studio backdrop
is the leather chair
I never sit in,
the red rose curtains
I keep closed,
the bookshelf
that houses all I’ve already read
and can’t part with.
The wall my husband painted red
is richer than I am,
bolder than I am.
It’s who I think I want to be.
They cannot see
the glaring spotlight
to my front
to make me visible,
lighter
brighter
than I feel.
I don’t let myself squint.
I am told to keep it natural
for them,
but my laptop balances atop
an upside down plastic laundry hamper
and the whites it usually holds
are rumpled in a stack by the washer.
I am precarious at best.
I invite people into
a corner of my room,
a place I’d never bring strangers,
but they can’t see what I keep hidden
my life beyond the camera’s range.
Keep it natural.
I am caked with more makeup
than usual
so I look better rested than I am.
This is what it is teach now.
This is how it goes.
I schedule the meeting.
I post the link.
I sip my coffee.
I count the minutes.
I secure the sound.
I exile my family.
I hide in a corner,
blind myself,
bind myself to all that’s in the box.
I begin.
It’s just me looking back at me.
I click a button to hide
my own face.
I silence myself.
It occurs to me:
What if no one comes?
And then faces appear,
one by one by one.
Their faces.
That one with the bookshelf
and the blue wall.
That one with the poster.
That one wrapped in a burrito blanket.
That one who stays muted, dark.
That one scrubbed and clean.
That one who just woke up.
That one with the cat, the dog, the turtle,
the little brother.
Our collective “Awww!”
Shadowed and seen
and in their own boxes.
But one glitches.
You, who lags.
You, whose mouth moves
like you are underwater
and we watch helplessly
as you disappear.
I want to wait,
but everyone is waiting.
I act like I am moving on,
but I’m scanning the screen
moving forward,
but not,
until--
there you are.
On another device.
I see you scramble.
I hear you apologize,
not begging
for us to hold on.
Please. Hold on.
This is a poor substitute
for what I didn't know I'd miss.
My God, I’ve missed their faces.
We wave and grin and glow.
How are you?
How are you REALLY?
And I am grateful for these small remnants,
these tiny boxes,
that hold everything in the world.