Concealed behind the dark curtains, Murmuring lines again and again, Twisting her face into all sorts of expressive emotions, Is the actress. Her costume’s fiery wings bounce as she paces, Back and forth, As the audience begins to come in. Peeking out from behind the curtains On another stage, in another place, Is the poet. He watches as the judges adjust their papers, Preparing for the show to begin Across the town, Already sitting onstage Is the speller. Words rush through her mind, A jumble of sounds turned into individual letters. Standing under the moonlight, Surrounded by people in black and white Is the musician. He runs his hand over his gleaming instrument, Trying to ignore the cacophony of other sounds. It’s those few moments before the show That make everything after them count. The lights dim. The actress steps onstage And delivers her opening monologue. The poet appears from behind the curtains And begins with a dramatic statement. The speller steps onto the podium And speaks each letter with clarity. The musician lifts his instrument And weaves a song into the night’s air. Each performer is telling a story. While the play has been performed before, While the poem has been spoken before, While the words have been spelled before, While the music has been played before, They’re all original. The story doesn’t depend on what’s being performed, It depends on the performer, The one that was pacing back and forth, murmuring lines, The one that spent hours studying each and every word, The one that took the time to recite this perfect poem, The one that practiced every night just for this moment. That’s who’s telling the story, And that’s what makes it beautiful.
