Brigits Flame Week 4
It’s quiet now.
The plush carpet is worn beneath my shoes. Not long ago it was host to hundreds of pairs of feet - shuffling and stomping feet, running and dancing feet-but it’s quiet now.
I close my eyes and conjure ghosts of memories to fill the empty seats. I try my best to animate them - to imagine the baptismal waterfall of their applause, their breezy whistles. . . but it is no use. They are quiet.
I summon wispy performers instead, translucent memories to fill the stage. A piccolo player daintily crosses her legs. The trombonists oil their slides and the first trumpet oils his valves; a third saxophone changes a reed. I lift my hands, and my ghostly orchestra raise their instruments to their lips. My fingers tremble; I give the downbeat.
Sweet chords used to hang from this ceiling like cobwebs dripping from rafters. I used to beckon, to coax, to demand tones so rich that I could have painted with them if I’d wanted. I used to find symphonies in taxi horns and concertos in clinking glasses.
But it’s quiet now.