​​© Copyright 2020 by Deanna Strasse
CAUTION: Professional and amateurs are hereby warned that
DANCING WITH HAMLET is subject to royalty.
All rights, including professional, amateur, motion picture, radio, television, public reading and the rights of translation into foreign language are strictly observed.
All questions with regard to licensing should be addressed to the author: Deanna Strasse [[email protected]]
No performance of any or all of the play may be given without obtaining in advance the written permission of the author and paying the requisite fee.
:::
Synopsis
When the matriarch of the Flack family, Rosie, decides to remarry, her three grown children are not exactly thrilled with the idea. They are mortified, however, when their father dies tragically in a car accident just a week before the big day and Rosie plans to go on with the wedding. The Flack’s only daughter, Elvira, begins to see the whole thing as a tragedy…on a Shakespearean level. In the days leading up to the wedding, someone is out to sabotage the big day, someone just wants to survive it and Elvira can’t make up her mind. Hearts will break, but the show must go on.
Characters
Elvira Flack…she/her/hers, 30s
Rosie Flack…she/her/hers, late 50s, Elvira’s mother
Beau Flack…he/him/his, 30s, Elvira’s older brother
Wilde Flack…he/him/his, 20s-30s, Elvira’s younger brother
Tony Simms…he/him/his, 50s, Rosie’s fiancé
Jean…she/her/hers, 20s-30s, the next-door neighbor to the Flack’s
(A Greek chorus of sorts also plays an integral role in the show. It must feature at least four actors of any gender or gender-identity but can have as many as ten players. The lines of “The Player” can be delivered by one actor in particular or divided among the chorus.)
Setting
The Flack family home in an unnamed Midwestern city as well as dramatic limbos in Elvira’s mind.
November. Present day.
Production History
Dancing With Hamlet was originally produced by Windfall Theatre in conjunction with Milwaukee Entertainment Group on March 15th 2018 in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
Carol Zippel directed, and the cast included:
Elvira…………..Melody Lopac
Wilde…………..Josh Scheibe
Rosie…………..Donna Daniels
Beau……………Cory Jefferson Hagen
Tony……………Emmitt Morgans
Jean……………Amanda J. Hull
:::
Act 1, Scene 1.
The scene is set. All is dark across Denmark. Francisco stands at their post. Enter Bernardo.
BERNARDO: Who’s there?
FRANCISCO: Nay, answer me: stand, and unfold yourself.
BERNARDO: Long live the king!
FRANCISCO: Bernardo?
BERNARDO: He.
FRANCISCO: You come most carefully upon your hour.
BERNARDO: ’Tis now struck twelve; get thee to bed, Francisco.
FRANCISCO: For this relief much thanks: ’tis bitter cold,
And I am sick at heart.
BERNARDO: Have you had quiet guard?
FRANCISCO: Not a mouse stirring.
BERNARDO: Well, good night.
If you do meet Horatio and Marcellus,
The rivals of my watch, bid them make haste.
FRANCISCO: I think I hear them. Stand, ho! Who’s there?
(Enter Horatio and Marcellus)
HORATIO: Friends to this ground.
MARCELLUS: And liegemen to the Dane.
FRANCISCO: Give you good night.
MARCELLUS: O, farewell, honest soldier:
Who hath relieved you?
FRANCISCO: Bernardo has my place.
Give you good night.
(Francisco exits)
MARCELLUS: Holla! Bernardo!
BERNARDO: Say,What, is Horatio there?
HORATIO: A piece of him.
BERNARDO: Welcome, Horatio: welcome, good Marcellus.
MARCELLUS: What, has this thing appear’d again to-night?
BERNARDO: I have seen nothing.
MARCELLUS: Horatio says ’tis but our fantasy,
And will not let belief take hold of him
Touching this dreaded sight, twice seen of us:
Therefore I have entreated him along
With us to watch the minutes of this night;
That if again this apparition come,
He may approve our eyes and speak to it.
HORATIO: Tush, tush, ‘twill not appear.
MARCELLUS: Peace, break thee off; look, where it comes again!
(Elvira enters now, carrying a large urn)
MARCELLUS: Thou art a scholar; speak to it, Horatio!
(Elvira stares around, confused)
HORATIO: Most like: it harrows me with fear and wonder.
BERNARDO: It would be spoke to.
MARCELLUS: Question it, Horatio.
HORATIO: What art thou that usurp’st this time of night,
Together with that fair and warlike form
In which the majesty of buried Denmark
Did sometimes march? by heaven I charge thee, speak!
ELVIRA: Ummm…
(Elvira begin to exit)
MARCELLUS: It is offended.
BERNARDO: See, it stalks away!
HORATIO: Stay! speak, speak! I charge thee, speak!
(Elvira exits)
MARCELLUS: ’Tis gone, and will not answer
HORATIO: Before my God, I might not this believe
Without the sensible and true avouch
Of mine own eyes.
This bodes some strange eruption to our state.
Heaven will direct it
MARCELLUS: Nay, let’s follow it.
HORATIO: Something is rotten in the state of Illinois.
(They exit, following Elvira)
:::
Act 1, Scene 2
The lights come up on the living room of a cozy home. It’s a lively place, filled with color. A large bay window sits upstage and doors lead off towards the kitchen, the rest of the house and so on. It’s late at night in November. Beau, a young man of about twenty-seven enters from the kitchen. While this is the home where he lived all his childhood, he doesn’t feel at home here. He treats the surrounding area like a museum, looking but never touching, afraid of possibly breaking something. He stares around and eventually meanders his way to the window. Everything about his demeanor says he’s uncomfortable. Off in the distance, we suddenly hear Beau’s brother, Wilde, whistling or humming (possibly something like “Chapel of Love” or “White Wedding”). Wilde enters from the main door, with a suitcase, having just arrived. The two brothers share a look.
WILDE: Hey, bro. I heard someone was getting married!
(Beau gives Wilde a wry look and then awkwardly exits to the kitchen. Wilde continues to hum as he walks towards the window. A moment passes and then he notices someone outside)
WILDE: Jean! Jean! (Opening the window) Hey, Jean! Look who came home! Jean! Over here! Jean! Jean! Jean! Jean! Jean! Jean!
(He continues with this obnoxious chant as he watches Jean, a pretty young woman about his age, walk up the front steps and enter from the main door)
JEAN: Well, look what the cat dragged in!
WILDE: Look who came home!
JEAN: Wilde! (She goes to hug him. It’s clear that she’s enjoying the hug more than Wilde is) Look at you! You haven’t changed a bit since I last saw you! How have you been?
WILDE: Terrible. Just rotten.
JEAN: I was right. You haven’t changed a bit. You just get in? Me, too, actually. Just this morning. Funny how things work out. I was up north with Mom. Isn’t that funny?
WILDE: Isn’t what funny?
JEAN: I don’t know. You were traveling. I was traveling.
WILDE: Yeah. Incredible. Where is everyone?
JEAN: I don’t know --
WILDE: I saw Beau moping around, but where…(His words are drenched with sarcasm) …where, oh where, is that lovely blushing bride?
(Jean clearly hasn’t picked up on the fact that he’s joking)
JEAN: Oh, your mom’s around. Two days to the wedding. You can imagine that she’s a little in over her head. But I swear in all the years I’ve known your mother, Wilde, I’ve never seen her happier. You should see her. She’s like a whole new woman.
WILDE: You’ve talked to her?
JEAN: Yeah. She should be around here somewhere. (Walking to the kitchen, calling) Rosie! (Turning back to Wilde) Anyway, she told me that you and Beau will be sharing the guest room. And Elvira will have to sleep down here on the couch.
WILDE: Weight room.
JEAN: I’m sorry?
WILDE: Weight room. She turned my old room into a weight room, right?
JEAN: Uh…yeah…
WILDE: How nice. I’m looking forward to seeing how bulked up she’s become.
JEAN: I think it was mostly for Tony.
WILDE: Ah, yes. Tony. Petite little thing. He could use a weight room.
JEAN: Would you like some help taking your stuff upstairs?
WILDE: Weight room. Guest room. Library. That’s what became of us. I became a weight room. Beau became a guest room and Elvira became a library.
JEAN: Are we really going to do this, Wilde?
WILDE: Do what?
JEAN: How old are you?
WILDE: I’m just saying --
JEAN: This is the happiest time for your mom. Just…try to be happy, okay? Forget all the melodramatic stuff. I know you and your mom are…you and your mom…but Saturday is going to be her day.
WILDE: You only get married once. Oh, wait.
JEAN: Wilde, if you saw how happy your mother is.
WILDE: I can imagine.
JEAN: Seriously, Wilde, wait until you see her --
WILDE: Why are you so perky, Jean?
JEAN: Just in my nature, I guess.
WILDE: I expected you to be a little more…(He can’t find the word)…considering everything.
JEAN: Do you want to see your mom?
WILDE: No. I’m okay.
(He looks to the coffee table where a platter of muffins has been laid out)
JEAN: Go ahead and have one if you like. They’re my special recipe.
WILDE: What are they?
JEAN: Muffins.
WILDE: I can see that.
JEAN: Honey, rosemary, Guinness.
WILDE: (Examining the muffins) Honey, rose --
JEAN: — rosemary and Guinness. Muffins. My own recipe.
(Wilde now stares at the muffins, almost frightened)
WILDE: Yeah.
(He looks to Jean who smiles and then he tentatively takes a bite)
JEAN: What do you think?
WILDE: Not as bad as I would have imagined.
JEAN: Thanks…? Anyway…welcome home, Wilde. I should go back to my mom and…I’ll be back later tonight. Rosie said she wanted to take you all out for dinner, but she also wanted to work on cleaning this place up. So I said I’d stop by and get a head start on it. So you’ll probably see me --
WILDE: Wait. What did you just say?
JEAN: Uh…well…We’re having the rehearsal dinner here, but your mom wanted to really give this place a good cleaning and --
WILDE: And you’ll be stopping by?
JEAN: Well, yes.
WILDE: You’ll be stopping by while we’re out to dinner?
JEAN: Well, yes.
WILDE: How will you be stopping by?
JEAN: I have a key and --
WILDE: What?
JEAN: I have a key. To your house. Your mom gave me a key. A while ago. Sometimes, when she and Tony are off doing something, they ask me to stop in and water the plants or feed the cats.
WILDE: You have a key?
JEAN: Well…yes…
(Wilde considers Jean and then begins to laugh. Jean, not knowing what else to do, laughs as well)
JEAN: Why are we laughing?
WILDE: Nothing. Nothing. Never mind.
JEAN: Okay.
WILDE: Can I see it?
JEAN: My key?
WILDE: Yes, your key. For the house.
JEAN: Oh. Uh…sure…(She takes out her keys, complete with a variety of quirky keychains and hands them to Wilde) It’s the silver one with the purple nail polish painted on top. I do that for all my keys. So I know which one is which.
WILDE: (Assessing the keys) Very nice. This one.? (Holding up a key)
JEAN: Yes.
WILDE: (Staring at the key) Very nice.
(A long pause while Wilde simply stares at the key. Wilde begins to laugh again. Again, not knowing what else to do, Jean joins in)
WILDE: Isn’t that just grand? Isn’t that precious? So precious. I can’t believe that.
JEAN: I know, right?
WILDE: You have a key?
JEAN: Yeah.
WILDE: A complete stranger. You have a key to my mother’s house --
JEAN: I wouldn’t say I’m a stranger, Wilde --
WILDE: I don’t have a key. She said she wouldn’t feel safe with so many keys floating around. We’ve legitimately had this conversation, Jean. I can’t believe this. She gave you a key?
JEAN: Yeah.
WILDE: She gave you a key?
JEAN: I live next door.
WILDE: I don’t have a key.
JEAN: You live two hundred miles away in Chicago.
WILDE: You’re not seeing the point.
JEAN: No, I’m afraid I’m not.
WILDE: Forget it. Forget I said anything.
JEAN: No. I’ve learned that when people say, “Forget it,” what they’re really saying is, “Please! Ask me! I beg you!”
WILDE: Jean, this time I actually don’t want to talk about it. That’s just my mother for you.
JEAN: There you go. “That’s just my mother for you.” Go on. Talk about it. Get it off your chest. You’re upset with your mother.
WILDE: Of course I am.
JEAN: So talk about it.
WILDE: I don’t want to talk about it, Jean.
(A long pause)
WILDE: I shouldn’t have to say it, Jean. My god, you should know. You know what she’s like.
JEAN: What did she do now?
WILDE: This whole thing. This whole thing. Damn it, Jean, why are you so…perky? Why are you so…happy?
JEAN: Just in my nature, I guess.
WILDE: You honestly can sit there and not think that this whole…thing is a fiasco!?
JEAN: What thing? The wedding? No, I don’t think it’s a fiasco. Your mother loves Tony. They want to marry each other. End of story. And if you’re wondering about your dad, Wilde --
WILDE: Of course it’s about Dad! (Sighs) Nobody understands.
(Jean laughs)
WILDE: What was that?
JEAN: Well, I was just giggling at you.
WILDE: And why?
JEAN: “Nobody understands.” That is so…you, Wilde.
(She rises, as if going to exit)
WILDE: Where are you going?
JEAN: I should get going.
WILDE: What does that mean, “That is so…you, Wilde.”
JEAN: Well, it is. If normal people had catchphrases, that would be yours. “Nobody understands!” You are such the youngest child.
WILDE: What does that mean?
JEAN: How long have we known each other? Practically our whole lives. And you got taller over the years. You moved around a couple of times. But you’ve always been the same. Dramatic.
(She throws herself on the couch)
JEAN : “Oh, I’m Wilde, and they got more than I did!” “Oh, I’m Wilde, and the world is so unfair!” “Oh, I’m Wilde and my mother didn’t hug me enough!”
WILDE: That is not true --
JEAN: “When I was twenty-three, my parents got a divorce, and it ruined my life!”
(Jean flops onto the floor, trying to be as dramatic as possible)
WILDE: That is not funny.
JEAN: “My entire childhood was ruined!”
WILDE: That is not funny.
JEAN: “I knew my parents weren’t compatible, but they should have stayed together and been unhappy…for ME!”
WILDE: You’re not funny.
JEAN: You’re the most dramatic girl I’ve ever met, and you’re a guy.
WILDE: How can you say that?
JEAN: You make it really easy!
WILDE: I realize that he wasn’t your father, but he’s still…he’s still important.
JEAN: Wilde, have you talked to him about all this? The last I talked to your dad, he was perfectly fine with all of this. He didn’t mind that your mom was getting remarried. He was happy that she had moved on and was starting again. Your dad is a good guy. I’m surprised I haven’t seen him around.
(Beau enters now)
BEAU: Oh. Jean. I thought I heard your voice.
WILDE: (To Jean) What did you just say?
JEAN: Your dad. He’s a good guy. I’m just --
WILDE: You don’t know. She didn’t tell you. You said you just got back from up north with your mother. You weren’t here last Sunday, were you?
BEAU: Wilde --
WILDE: (To Jean) Were you?
JEAN: Was I what?
WILDE: You weren’t here. You don’t know.
JEAN: Don’t know what?
BEAU: Wilde, don’t lose your temper. I’m sure Mom was going to tell her --
JEAN: She was going to tell me what?
WILDE: That bitch! She didn’t even think to tell you!?
BEAU: Wilde!
(Rosie’s voice is heard from upstairs)
ROSIE: Tony?!
WILDE: Mom! (He crosses to the stairs)
ROSIE: Wilde? Is that you?
BEAU: (Crossing to the stairs as well) Yeah! Wilde is here, Mom. He just got in.
ROSIE: Is Tony around?
BEAU: No. Tony stepped out I think.
ROSIE: No, that’s fine! I’m about to make my entrance! Are you ready? Prepare yourself, Wilde! I’m coming down!
BEAU: Jean is here, too, Mom!
ROSIE: Oh, Jean, good! Are you ready? Beau’s already seen this!
JEAN: Ready for what, Rosie?
(Jean begins to cross towards the stairs)
ROSIE: Wait! I don’t want you to see yet! Just wait there! Are you ready? All of you! Back away from the stairs! I’m about to make my entrance!
(Everyone crosses back, allowing Rosie her full catwalk)
JEAN: What is it?
(Rosie begins to make her descent from the stairs. Rosie Flack is edging closer and closer to sixty, but she likes to pretend that’s not true. She is dressed in very white wedding gown that probably came from the prom section of the store rather than wedding. It’s a little too tight and a little too low cut. Wilde and Jean are both speechless. Beau smiles wearily)
ROSIE: Well? What do you think?
JEAN: (Biting her tongue) You look magnificent, Rosie! Oh my word! You look…stunning! I can’t…I can’t think of words. You look…look at you.
ROSIE: It’s not too much?
JEAN: Oh, no. Go big or go home I say. This is going to be the happiest day of your life. You should feel like a million bucks.
WILDE: Happiest day of your life?
JEAN: Well, one of them, anyhow.
ROSIE: Wilde, you haven’t said a thing about your mother’s dress.
(Wilde just stares at her)
ROSIE: Wilde? What is it?
WILDE: You didn’t tell her.
ROSIE: Didn’t tell her what?
BEAU: Wilde, shut up.
WILDE: Afraid it would ruin your day? Your special day? God, Mom!
JEAN: Wilde, what is it?
ROSIE: What are you talking about?
WILDE: Jean doesn’t know! She doesn’t know about Dad! You’d think that would be somewhat important information to relay to someone, but I can see where it would overshadow your special day.
JEAN: What didn’t she tell me?!
(At this moment, Elvira enters, carrying the large urn we saw before. All eyes are on her, especially Rosie’s. There is an eerie silence)
ELVIRA: Well, hello to you, too.
ROSIE: Elvira. What is that?
ELVIRA: What’s what?
ROSIE: What do you have there? In your hands.
ELVIRA: Oh, nothing. Just Dad’s ashes.
(The silence is deafening)
ROSIE: I thought…they wouldn’t be done with…with that until --
ELVIRA: They called just this morning. Apparently, cremation business is really slow over there so they got to him sooner than expected. I just went to pick him up.
(Elvira walks to the coffee table, setting the urn prominently at the center of the room. All eyes are on it)
ROSIE : Not on the coffee table, dear.
ELVIRA: Where would you like him then?
ROSIE: I don’t know. Just not there.
(Everyone is still staring at the urn)
ROSIE: Elvira, I’m serious. Put it somewhere else.
ELVIRA: Okay. Fine.
(She picks up the urn and considers everyone on the room)
ELVIRA: It’s actually a lot heavier than I expected. Would you like to try holding it?
(Rosie suddenly bursts into tears and exits upstairs. There is a moment of silence. Without another word, Wilde exits out the front door. Jean considers Elvira and the urn)
JEAN: His…his…ashes? Dennis? That’s…that’s Dennis? Dennis Dennis? Your dad Dennis? He…he’s dead?!
BEAU: Car accident. This past Sunday.
JEAN: That was four days ago.
BEAU: Yes.
JEAN: She…she’s going forward with the wedding?
BEAU: Yes.
JEAN: She didn’t…(Looking at where Wilde exited)…she didn’t mention anything to me. (Back to Elvira and Beau) They’re…they’re still getting married on Saturday?
BEAU: Yeah.
JEAN: Oh.
ELVIRA: Yeah. Oh.
(The lights fade)
:::
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​Specifically, a “Harry Potter” fanfic.
(Hufflepuffs against TERFs!)
:::
Overall, it had been a lovely holiday. Kreacher was still being his usual self, but at least he stayed away from most people. It was as if the Christmas Spirit was a stench he couldn’t stand.
Most everyone assumed that the house elf had gone nocturnal and roamed about at night, doing his dirty work. However, it was nearly two in the morning and Sirius hadn’t seen any sign of him. Not that Sirius was worried or upset over Kreacher’s absence. He wasn’t wide awake, sitting on a moth-eaten couch, bouncing his leg in anticipation (and high levels of caffeine) to hear any of Kreacher’s moronic and disillusioned rants.
Sirius was waiting for a far more interesting story.
And at exactly one past two, the door opened and a figure shakily entered the Black house. The stranger shook the snow off his cloak and then pulled it off, throwing it upon a hook on the wall. He was rubbing his hands together and attempting to create some kind of warmth when Sirius realized he couldn’t wait anymore and pulled out his wand, conjured some light, and asked slyly, “So…how did it go?”
The reaction was perfect. Remus had the look of a deer caught in headlights. He jumped and froze, staring at Sirius’s face and blinking a few times as his eyes got used to the sudden light.
“You’re…you’re up…”
“Well spotted,” Sirius had to use every bit of control not to laugh at his friend’s face. He took a breath and repeated the question, “So…how did it go?”
Remus’s eyes hit the floor, and he went back to rubbing his hands together; now more out of nervousness than the cold. “You stayed up all this time just to ask me how it went?” He tried to walk past Sirius, but Padfoot blocked his escape.
“Well, it’s a milestone of an occasion. Things like this don’t happen every day. Well, not for you, anyway, Moony. So…how did it go?”
“It was fun,” Remus finally said after a few nervous bounces on the balls of his feet, “It was a lot of fun. I’m glad I went.”
“You’re glad that I told you to go, you mean.”
“I’m glad I went.”
Had he said good night and run away quickly enough, Remus could have avoided any further questioning. But the fact of the matter is that both men knew there was a part of Remus (however small) that wanted to talk about what had happened that night. That part left him standing there, staring at the floor and waiting for Sirius to continue asking questions.
“And…” Sirius obliged, “What happened? What did you eat? What did you do?”
“Well, it was a Christmas party so we did…party-like things.”
“Remus, I don’t get out much these days. Entertain me. Tell me about the party-like things. Tell me about Dora.”
Remus ignored the way Sirius said her name and pushed on, “Well, Moody never showed up. No one was really surprised by that. Kingsley and a few other Aurors did, though, and they were all very nice. We had dinner. It was very good. The best food I’ve had in a while. Don’t tell Molly. Not that her stuff is bad at all. She’s fantastic, but Andromeda and Ted pulled out all the stops. Ham, turkey, black pudding, potatoes of every variety-”
“Andromeda and Ted? You’re on a first-name-basis with the parents?”
“I wasn’t very well going to go on calling them Mr. and Mrs. Tonks all night. She’s your cousin, afterall! We’ve met. We know each other. I thought you wanted to hear about the party. I was going to tell you about the food-”
“Moony, you know damn well I don’t want to hear about the food! Who did you sit next to at dinner?”
Remus didn’t have to answer that question; Sirius already knew so he just went on, “Did she ask you to sit next to her or did you just sit next to her all on your own?”
Even in the dim light of the Lumos charm, Sirius could make out that his friend was turning a bright red color that he had not donned in ten years probably. Remus finally moved past Sirius and fumbled his way to the kitchen. Sirius was practically skipping as he followed him and asked, “What was she wearing tonight? A dress? What color was her hair? Did you meet any of the Muggle cousins? Did she look pretty?”
Remus was pacing in the kitchen now, torn between his general embarrassment and that small stupid part of him that wanted to go on, “She was wearing a red dress. Yes, she did look very pretty. Her hair was black because, yes, the Muggle cousins were there, and Andromeda didn’t want her to scare them. I didn’t talk much with the cousins because they seemed utterly terrified to be in the same room as us-”
“Did you kiss her?”
Remus stopped, “What?”
:::
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Specifically…a “Good Omens” fanfic.
Enjoy, solider.
:::
Everything was so lovely.
And that seemed odd…suspicious even.
Aziraphale eyed Crowley from the passenger side of the Bentley and asked cautiously, “What’s the occasion?”
The demon raised his eyebrows, “Occasion?” he purred.
That was all the confirmation that Aziraphale needed. It wasn’t what Crowley had said (that one simple word), but how he said it. The demon liked to point out how easily he could read Aziraphale just based on tone of voice, but he himself wasn’t as aloof or mysterious as he liked to think he was. One word, said so whimsically that it was almost sarcastic, gave him away. Something was going to happen…something devilish.
“Whatever do you mean?” Crowley went on, his eyes never leaving the road.
“We just ate at Nachtigallhaus, a restaurant that you hate,” the angel pointed out before gesturing to the radio, “We are listening to Schubert, rather than your usual bebop music, and…” he leaned over to verify that this was correct, “We are currently only going ten miles over the posted speed limit. Something is up. Why are you being so nice to me? Have you done something?”
“I didn’t realize that going a certain speed counted as being nice to you,” Crowley said dryly.
“You know how much I hate it when you drive recklessly. Forget the speed limit. You hate German food and you hate classical music even more so I’m only left to assume that you have something up your sleeve. You’re trying to make me let down my guard.”
Aziraphale said this all in a somewhat playful manner, but truthfully he was more than a little concerned. Crowley often got the pair into scrapes that required smoothing over (an unintended murder, a burglary that he conveniently forgot to tell Aziraphale about, and the like.) As a demon, his ability to get himself into trouble was limitless. Even after all the millenia, he still found ways to surprise Aziraphale when it came to disorder. (Truthfully, Aziraphale was no better, though his mishaps were usually unintentional, stemming from ill-planned attempts to do good while Crowley’s were always intentional and usually always wicked.)
Crowley shook his head and laughed, “Could it be that I just want to pamper you?” he said, with a malicious smile. His hand left the steering wheel and found a spot on Aziraphale’s knee, “I am doing this because I like the things that you like.”
“But you don’t like the things that I like,” Aziraphale argued, “Who has died? Did you kill them? Who did you anger this time? Do we need to leave London and create new identities? What is wrong? Just tell me. I can handle it.”
Rubbing the angel’s knee with his thumb affectionately, Crowley attempted to assuage his counterpart, “I haven’t done anything. Nothing is wrong. Nothing is up.”
“Perhaps you haven’t done anything, yet, but I can only assume that you’ve got something planned,” Aziraphale looked out the window to truly take in the scenery, “We’re going somewhere…certainly not home. Where are we going?”
Not home was right. Somewhere between basking in the memory of the Black Forest Gateaux he had just eaten and a particularly lovely recording of Symphony №9, Aziraphale had lost track of time and direction. The pair were currently driving through dark backroads, lined with trees and the occasional open field. Every kilometer or so, a stray street lamp would appear, offering a tiny bit of illumination to travelers, but, for the most part, the whole scene was pitch black, save the Bentley's headlights. Admittedly, out of the city and away from the light pollution, one could truly appreciate the flickering stars and quarter moon that hung so perfectly in the inky sky. Aziraphale caught himself gazing at the beautiful celestial display and thinking, This is so romantic.
That made him stop. It was just one more factor to add to the list. Something was going to happen. This was a premeditated apology or some kind of token to smooth over whatever Crowley was about to tell him.
Sensing the growing tension, Crowley sighed, “We’re just going for a drive, Angel. Just a drive….away from the city. Just the two of us. It is nice, isn’t it?”
The way he said that made the angel feel a twinge of guilt. It was very nice, after all. And the look on Crowley’s face when he said it was nothing short of darling, if not a little pathetic-looking. Even through his dark glasses, Aziraphale could see the demon’s eyes get wide and doe-like and the slightest hint of a pout had crossed his lips. With that, the angel melted and relaxed his shoulders before placing his hand over Crowley’s. A lovely drive in the woods with his beautiful demon while one his favorite composers serenaded them was decidedly nice. Perhaps even devils did the occasional considerate and amorous thing. He pulled Crowley’s hand to his lips, kissing it, as if offering an apology. They drove on in a comfortable silence, broken only by Franz’s marvelous symphonies.
And then something did happen…
:::
Want to read more? Check out my profile at Archive of Our Own:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/51938647

Originally posted on Medium on 10/22/22

• I had Taco Bell before getting on the bus to O’Hare. Normally, my gut doesn’t have a problem with the Bell’s bean burritos (ask for no cheese and add pico de gallo in order to make it vegan) but maybe my nerves over the upcoming trip plus a surplus of fast food refried beans was not a good combination for me. That’s all I’m going to say. Let your imagination fill in the rest.
• A woman sat next to me on the bus, and she smelled amazing. Like vanilla mixed with clean laundry. I should have told her that her scent was giving me life, but I figured that would be weird. I don’t want to assume, but it seemed that English was not her first language, and “You smell good” is a phrase with potential problems when lost in translation.
• The last time I was at O’Hare, I remember thinking that it was an incredibly confusing airport, but I handled this time much better and found my gate without issue. I’m going to take that as a sign of maturity and growth…either on my end or the airport’s.
• Picture it: you’re sitting on a plane. There’s one row of two on either side of the plane and one row of three going down the middle. You’re sitting on an aisle seat in the middle. A woman sits in the other aisle seat. You’re grateful that at least you’re not in the middle seat but simultaneously are eyeing the very obvious lack of elbow room there is. You’re going to be here for seven and a half hours (at least). How will you survive? You’re trying to enjoy this time while the middle seat is unoccupied. You eye it longingly, thinking of all the things you could put there if only someone else’s butt didn’t have to go there. And then…could it be? You see the flight attendant walking down the aisle, closing up overhead compartments. No one else is getting on the plane. You can almost feel the beautiful click of the airplane door locking shut. You eye the lady in the other aisle seat. It’s almost too good to believe. There is no one sitting in the middle. This is the only exchange that you and the other woman will share through this long journey: just this look and a smile and a simultaneous motion as you both move your bags onto the middle seat. God is good.
• Benadryl will knock me out…without fail. But I didn’t buy Benadryl for this trip. Instead, I told myself that due to the red eye nature of the flight, I would have no problem falling asleep. For added security, I would take a melatonin prior to getting on the plane, and that would surely knock me out. Despite the fact that melatonin has never really worked for me in the past, I was sure that this time, it would come through for me. But melatonin is no match for my anxiety. Melatonin popped its head around the corner and said, “Alright, brain. It’s time to go to bed.” And my brain, riddled with nervous energy, laughed maniacally at it. My brain cackled at the pure, delightful naivety of melatonin for thinking that it could quiet my thoughts. Occasionally, my mind calmed down enough to allow me to sleep, but it was always a thin sleep, marked by a constant awareness of my surroundings and a distinct lack of REM. I learned a valuable lesson: never send melatonin to do Benadryl’s job.
• Because I couldn’t sleep, I decided to watch Fantastic Beasts: The Secrets of Dumbledore. What the hell did I just watch? Asking for myself. It was less of a “movie” with “plot” and more of Rowling and Yates attempting to show off all the cool ideas they had for the wizarding world. Imagine a kid running along the side of a pool, screaming, “Hey, Mom! Look at this! I did a cool wand duel! Did you see? Did you see, Mom?!” That being said, I still adore Eddie Redmayne’s Newt, Dan Fogler’s Jacob, and anything having to do with Nifflers. But Eddie, Dan, and an adorable platypus with kleptomaniac tendencies does not a good movie make.
• The escalator at the Underground ate my suitcase. I don’t have good luck with suitcases. Now that I think about it, my parents bought me a new one for Christmas before I left for Ireland in 2019, and that only lasted one trip. I borrowed a suitcase from my sister for my California trip, and that zipper broke on the last day. And now here I sit with newly vanquished luggage. The damage is not severe enough to really affect the contents but it does look wonky. Nothing a little duct tape can’t fix, but I am starting to think I’m a sadist towards suitcases.
• I had the choice to either call a cab to take me to my hostel or walk. A walk would take about fifteen minutes, and a car ride would take about six. It wasn’t the distance that bothered me so much, but the fact that I’d be rolling my nearly fifty-pound suitcase along for the ride (the chewed up one, remember). In the end, though, I decided that since I’d been sitting for about eight hours on the flight and then another forty minutes on the Tube, I could do with some walking. I was sweaty and disheveled when I arrived at the hostel, but my heart felt good and I saved a few bucks.
• That’s right: I’m staying at a hostel. It’s an interesting experience that I figured I had had enough of after Ireland. It’s reminiscent of being back in college where we’re all together, on similar but also distinctly different paths. I’m staying in a four-bed all female room. This building seems to be about eighty percent stairs, and my room is (of course) on one of the upper levels. And I mean upper levels. There was a very nice Australian gentleman who sat behind the counter when I checked in (he asked me where I was from, and when I told him Wisconsin, he said that he’d been to Madison…and that he was robbed in Madison). He offered to carry my suitcase (almost fifty pounds, remember) up the seemingly endless flights. First, the stairs are wide, able to fit two to three adults walking up side-by-side. But after the fourth level, they shrink to the point of having to almost turn completely sidewise in order to continue on. My room is on the sixth level, and that isn’t even the very top. I was incredibly grateful to this nice Australian man who, unfortunately, was robbed while visiting Madison, Wisconsin.
• I was, by no means, able to see everything in London. On paper, I was there for three days, but between airplanes, trains, subways, taxis, and not falling asleep when I was supposed to, I only had one full day to explore. There was a distinct and lingering feeling of guilt as my train pulled out of Kings Cross Station as if I had failed somehow. I didn’t get to one London museum (not even the Doctor Who one!) and while I walked outside the Tower of London, St Paul’s Cathedral, and Westminster Abbey, I certainly didn’t get to experience anything within the walls. I could just hear everyone’s questions when I got home, “Did you ride the London Eye?” “Did you get a picture of yourself at Platform 9 ¾?” “Did you make it to 221B Baker Street?” No, no, and no. Thanks for the reminder. On every major trip I’ve ever taken, there’s always at least one “big sad” moment (usually towards the beginning of the trip) where you’re sitting alone, shaking your head, and thinking, “Why did I bother? What was I thinking? This trip is awful!” Sitting outside the SuperValu in the rain in Dingle was my Ireland “big sad” moment and crying in the shower, exhausted and sweaty after traveling from Fresno to San Francisco in a rental car I was sure was breaking down was my “big sad” California moment. (There have been others, but those are the two that come to mind.) Today, while riding my train away from London in the very back of the coach where there were no windows, was both big and sad. I was clearly very bad at this whole traveling thing, despite desperately wanting to be seen as a globe-trotter. Add to the fact that I had no internet unless I could find WiFi which was basically nonexistent on my train. An employee came through to see our tickets, and my phone would not load mine. I knew that she wouldn’t toss me off the moving train, but that didn’t stop from panicking. Luckily, my phone loaded enough to show the description of the ticket (but not the actual bar code that this employee needed to scan). She said she believed me and reminded me that I had a train switch to New Castle. She walked on, I sank into my window-less seat and felt the icy rush of more “big sad’ feelings. But those never last long.
• Any sadness at all melted away as soon as I turned up Royal Mile in Edinburgh. The road is at an incline so I’m sure that I looked a bit silly, dragging my forty-nine pound rolling suitcase up along the closes (I always say that I’m going to pack lighter, but I never do). Edinburgh (as I’ve seen so far) is a beautiful mix of Dublin and Prague. Dublin with its distinctly Celtic feel and adorable kitschy shops and Prague with its old world grandeur; we’re talking castles and cobblestone roads…not a train ride away but right outside your hotel window. You instantly feel like you’ve gone back in time. The page turns and before you know it, you’re sitting outside Edinburgh Castle, writing postcards, sipping tea, and thinking about where to get dinner. After that, you’re strolling through various shops, suddenly feeling the need to wear anything and everything tartan. And then you’re sipping wine while a man with a guitar plays jazzy covers of love songs in the light of Balmoral Clock Tower. Excitement and adrenaline simultaneously mixed with peace and reverence. It’s the feeling of being home in a place you’ve never been to before.

More thoughts coming soon as the adventure continues.

Originally posted to Medium on 9/21/2021

​







​I had a conversation with my thirteen-year-old self the other day
She smiled politely, but I could tell
She had questions
Thirteen-year-old me is not a very good liar
“Okay,” I said, “What do you think?”
She was quiet for a moment and then,
“You’re very pretty”
Thirteen-year-old me is not a very good liar
“No, really. What do you think?”
She was about to open her mouth when I added
“And you can tell me the truth
I don’t care too much for bullshit”
Her eyes widened
Thirteen-year-old me can’t believe I just said bullshit
“It’s just…”
She started
Not making eye contact
Wiggling too much
Uncomfortable in her own skin
“It’s just…you’re not…very…”
The words drip out of her like molasses
Slowly…so slowly…
“Thin”
She finally says
“You’re kind of…fat”
Twenty-seven-year-old me is not a very good liar
Either
That remark stings
But I don’t let her know
She continues to stumble on her words,
“I just thought. Maybe
MAYBE
By now you’d have figured the whole fat thing out”
I almost laughed
But I knew what a fragile doll she is
“What else?”
Thirteen-year-old me eyed my left hand
I definitely laughed
“Nope. Still fat. Still single.”
“Do you live on Broadway?” She asked
I shook my head
“Milwaukee”
“Oh! Do you work at the Rep?”
I laughed again
“No
I’ve worked at some theatres
Had some plays produced
Directed a little”
I wanted to explain that the Rep gets their actors from New York
Or Chicago these days
But I didn’t think that will help the situation
“And you’re…how old are you again?”
“Twenty-seven”
I may as well have told her I was a hundred and two
She wanted to ask so badly
She wanted to ask the same question I’ve asked myself
Every day
Every night
The difference between twenty-four and twenty-five
Was day and night
One day I was a college graduate trying to figure it out
And then I was an adult with nothing figured out
She wanted to ask so badly
And finally she did
“So…what exactly have you done with your life?”
“Well…
Like I said…
I’ve worked at a couple theatres
Nothing too fancy
But I’m trying
I’m trying really hard”
Before I could say more, she began to cry
She’d held it in so long
She’d taken deep breaths and blinked
Trying to push back the feelings
But she couldn’t do that forever
And here they are
She began to cry
And just like that, the grief tuned to anger
At bone-crushing speed, she jumped from one to the other,
A telltale sign of a diagnosis
She won’t get for another five years
“What have you done with your life?!”
She demanded it now
The fury in her eyes comes from sorrow
Sorrow and fear
That we all end up the same way
Single
Fat
Not at the Rep
Complacent
She goes home every day to complacency
It’s another member of the family
Who sits at the dinner table
And follows her to bed
Who goes out to dinner with her
And orders the same thing over and over again
Always saying, “This time…something new”
But something new never comes
She wanted to know so badly that somewhere along the line
Complacency died
I knew this
I knew she was speaking in anger
But we’re so much alike
I couldn’t help but speak in anger, too
“Let’s get a few things straight here, little miss,”
I started,
“You don’t know anything
I don’t know anything, but you
You know even less
You know a hundredth of what I know
And I know a thousandth of what everyone else knows
That’s how far off track you are
That is how stupid you are”
And then
The two of us were crying
For even though time separates us
One facet of our beings has never changed:
The need to be self destructive
We were crying
Wheezing
On the verge of hyperventilating
We were so upset with ourselves
And then we took a breath
Age (and drugs)
Have helped me come up from the lows faster than she does
She was sobbing still when I finally said,
“This life is not that bad
This life is truthful
You wanted to walk out of high school
And marry a movie star
You walked out of high school
And got educated
You took a road trip
You threatened to leave
You did leave
You wrote terrible plays
That people will always remember
You wrote incredible plays
That people somehow forget
You stood at the bow of the catamaran
And chased whales across the Pacific
There’s a dog
And several men
And an angel
And everything in between
This is not the life you wanted
But it is a life”
I wanted to tell her to ask Grandma more questions
I wanted to warn her about the car accidents
I wanted to suggest a thousand things
But the future is hers
And no one likes spoilers

Originally posted to Medium on 10/18/2020

People don’t write songs about situations like mine. I’ve tried very hard to find comfort in records like “Don’t Start Now” by Dua Lipa or “Ignore Me” by Betty Who, but, at the end of the day, I am in a completely different world than these narrators.
“Don’t Start Now” and “Ignore Me” (along with countless other songs that follow this archetype) have a storyteller with a giant metaphorical finger up in the air. Their past lover hurt them deeply only to come crawling back to them, begging for attention and/or a new beginning.
What happens when the lover never comes back? I’ve yet to find a song that highlights that phenomena (probably because it isn’t nearly as uplifting or fun as being proven right by your ungrateful ex). And I’m not talking about sad songs; they are plenty of those. I’m talking about something that finds meaning in the silence, that finds strength in the rejection.
Three years ago in July, we were doing a show together and after rehearsal, we went to get dinner at Qdoba. It was pretty much perfect for me. I got to eat a guinea pig-sized burrito and I got to talk to you. The employees eventually asked us to leave because they were closing up, and so we stood out by my car and chatted for a while. But it got late and you had to go. We said our goodbyes. We drove away in separate cars. And I never saw you again. Every conversation we’ve had after that night at Qdoba has consisted of sparsely-sent text messages and a few emails. There’s obviously at lot of context that I’m leaving out given that this is an open letter on the internet and perhaps the context doesn’t matter so much as the aftermath you left in your wake.
We have a rift (I’ll use that term very generously) and then you left. Literally. You moved to a different town and told me to never speak to you again. Any attempts I have made to rectify the situation or at least get some kind of closure have been met with statements such as, “I hate you,” or “Do not ever contact me again.”
It’s no secret that I loved you, but, first and foremost, you were my friend. You were my best friend and you told me more than once that I was yours. We often talked about how we were kindred spirits or cut from a similar cloth. I felt comfort with you that I had never experienced with another person, and you told me so often that I was special. You were my kryptonite (if I’m allowed to be cliche.)
Make no mistake that my life is pretty fucking great now. I’ve grown a lot in the three years since you’ve seen me and probably for the better. I moved out of my parents’ place finally and live with my very close friend (who is one of the reasons why I’m here today; she was the first person I told when everything went down between you and me and she has helped me a lot to deal with the mess that you left). My writing is taking off (somewhat…more than I really ever thought it would), I have two beautiful nephews, I travelled to Ireland and Prague by myself, I learned to crochet, and I’m working hard on the social anxiety that’s kept me from really getting to know people all these years. 2020 has given me my fair share of shit, but I don’t want you to think that I am sitting around, crying into a wine glass every night because you didn’t love me back. (I did do that for a while.) But I am, in a lot of ways, still broken. I’m not the sweet girl that you left behind all those years ago; I’m a little tougher now, bitter, and cynical. You used to say one of the best things about me was that I was so bright and happy. I have lost some of that and I have spent countless hours in therapy trying to put my fears into words: you threw me away like a piece of trash; so I must be trash.
When you first told me to stay away from you, I assumed that this was just a knee-jerk reaction to our “rift” and given enough time, you’d contact me when you felt it was right. I gave you your space. I fought the panic in my head that said it was over for us and we’d never see each other again; you would call me, we would settle things, and life would go on. You have never really made that call, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not still waiting on it (even if logic dictates that it’s never coming). My expectations for what you would say have slowly dwindled over the years. Where once I hoped for, “Deanna, I love you and I care deeply about you, but this is just insurmountable and we need to go our separate ways,” now I simply hope that you think of me and maybe feel a twinge of pity.
That’s the part that hurts the most: every day you wake up and have a chance to reach out to me and make things right but you choose not to. Every night you lie down to sleep, apparently at peace with where we are now and how I feel about you.
I made mistakes. You made mistakes. We hurt each other and we hurt other people, but once upon a time you told me things that made me feel like the king of the world. Once upon a time, your love made me so strong and so confident that I felt like I could do anything (again, with the cliches). If anyone who has read my work enjoys Summers in Prague or Dancing With Hamlet, they owe that enjoyment to you. You inspired me. You were my muse be it through character development or simply conversations that you and I shared. Once up on a time, you told me that I was important to you and you didn’t want to live without me. Times change and clearly you can live without me. I can deal with that, and I’m sure that I will eventually heal completely from this, but I’m also sure that this process would speed up a bit if I had some closure from you.
This letter is just one more scream into the void: me, standing at the precipice of your absence and hoping that you’ll hear some echo and call back.
I’ve yet to find a song that describes my situation. I suppose a sad one will have to do for now.
If someone said three years from now
You’d be long gone
I’d stand up and punch them out
’Cause they’re all wrong
I know better
’Cause you said forever
And ever
Who knew

Originally posted on Medium 9/25/2020

Dear Dad,
This Saturday is your and Mom’s anniversary, and I’m not sure why that’s hitting me harder than any of the other holidays. More than Father’s Day (which was terribly hard). More than your birthday.
I suppose the old cliche is true that death puts things into perspective. I never realized how big of an influence you had over my life until I couldn’t go to you anymore. We were never that close…not like you and Dana were. Dana was Daddy’s girl. Will continues to be Mama’s boy. And then there was me. I don’t think that we had a bad relationship…just an unfulfilling one. We had so little in common and we were both so polite. That’s where I got it from. You always talked so much about common decency and how uncommon it was. Whenever I’m faced with the choice of showing that decency, I tend to think of you.
The main thing that I miss are the opportunities. You were always a very quiet man…private even with your family. You could be silly and funny with us, but your true feelings always seemed to be buried. I know that Grandma wasn’t the easiest to live with and you must have had a lonely childhood…that’s the way it sounded, anyway. Grandpa wasn’t around and Uncle Denny was older and had moved out. It was just you and Grandma…and Grandma Strasse was a pill (to put it mildly). I never asked you the simplest of questions like, “Who was your best friend growing up?” or “How did you know that Mom was the one you wanted to marry?” The first question would have been easier for you. You probably would have been stumped by the second…not because you didn’t have an answer for it, but because you weren’t the kind to share too many secrets. If you’re anything like me, you were probably told often that your secrets were silly or stupid. You were told that your ideas were dumb so you buried them. I got my introversion from you, and that’s not a bad thing at all. There’s a power in knowing your own mind and having quiet time to let your mind wander. Most people want to fill their space up with so much noise that they don’t even know the sound of their own thoughts.
I started buying Christmas gifts. I always get an early start on it. I sent out the emails to Dana, Mom, Will, and Nick asking for lists and ideas. And it broke my heart that I didn’t have to send one to you. Your email address sits vacant now, unused and slowly filling up with emails that will never be read. What happens to a person’s email account once they die? Are there just these millions and millions of accounts floating around out there in the web? Do they eventually get deleted due to inactivity? Does the common widow know to delete her husband’s unused email account?
As much as my heart breaks, I know that my pain isn’t as deep as Mom’s, and that’s disheartening for a number of reasons. Obviously, it kills me to see Mom cry. I’ve never seen her like this before…even when Linley died, there was at least a small pocket of hope in her. I spent a good amount of time wondering if she might do something drastic. The other day, I went over to the house and found a sealed envelope in the desk drawer labeled, “Mom/Sue’s Funeral Plans”. I crept into the kitchen and opened it, fearing that it was some kind of letter that we weren’t supposed to find until the deed was done. But it was an old letter…from back when Mom had her hernia surgery. She wrote that in case anything bad happened, she wanted everyone to know her final wishes. It was dated several years back. She must have simply forgot that it was there.
I put the letter back and started to feel silly for thinking that Mom would ever do something like that, and then I felt silly for feeling silly for thinking that Mom would ever do something like that. Love and heartbreak can lead us down dark paths. So can mental illness. Mom didn’t want you to know, but she’s been taking depression medication for a while. It never occurred to me that you’d have any kind of issue with that. Did you have an issue with me taking medication? If you did, you never let on. Mom needs to see a therapist. She’s lost her way without you. Covid19 hasn’t helped. Right when she could really use connection and people filling the house with laughter and stories, that’s when we enter quarantine. She has Nicholas and Noah, but they can’t fix everything.
I’m also sad because I continue to deal with the same thoughts that have plagued me ever since you died: I’m not grieving enough. I’m not crying enough. I’m not sad enough. I’m going on with my life, and I feel as though everyone else in the family is at a standstill. There are times when I forget that you’re gone; I don’t live at home and I didn’t see you every day. You being out of the picture isn’t all that different. It’s only when I go home and see the empty basement or hear Rowdy crying nonstop that I’m forced to remember you’re gone.
That’s a new thing. Rowdy cries. He’s really barking, but I think it’s a kind of cry. He hates being outside (even more than when you were alive), and when he is forced into nature, he’ll just stand on the deck and bark incessantly. Mom and Will have tried putting a bark collar on him, but between his thick fur and the collar being rather cheap, it doesn’t do much good. You were his daddy, too, and, unlike us, he doesn’t understand why you’re gone. He just knows that he’s missing you.
When Linley died, I was devastated, but there was an aspect of hope to it. We all called her our little angel and talked as if we’d see her again. There was never a doubt in my mind that I’d see her once I, too, died. I often dreamed that in my last moments on Earth, she’d visit me and lead me up to Heaven. I would just know that it’s her. Beau would be there, too. When I think about Linley, I think of hope in a time of turmoil. I don’t know why your death is so different, but I’m having a huge crisis of faith right now.
In my brain, Linley definitely became and angel, but you? I don’t know. Linley was stillborn so I never really knew her; there was an aspect of distance there. But I knew you and you were ripped away from us. Once there was something and then it was gone. Once there was you and then you were gone. I remember having a conversation with a friend of mine right before Linley died where we were discussing the afterlife. He’s an agnostic and said that humans are machines and chemical reactions an when we die, the machines cease to work and we simply cease to exist. The idea scared me even then and then we lost Linley, and I outright dismissed even the possibility of it. My niece did not just cease to exist. She had to go somewhere. She had to be somewhere. She had to be living in Heaven and flying around on clouds and dancing with Jesus. She just had to be. But your death was different somehow. My friend’s idea fills my brain and I think that maybe you’re nowhere. You have simply ceased to exist, and that idea frightens me. I want to see you or get some kind of sign from you. The light in my car will randomly pop on; it’s done that since I bought it over a year ago, but now I tell myself that that’s you…just popping in to say hello. I had a bonfire a month back and a moth came and sat on my leg. He just sat there with me for a long while, and I wanted to believe that that was you…just popping in to say hello. To tell me that you’re okay. Where are you, Dad? You know the secret, and I don’t. I just want to know that you’re still there. I need some kind of sign.
Of course, if you have ceased to exist, then that means that Linley has ceased to exist. So has Grandma and Grandpa. So will I one day. A pastor would tell me that you’re too busy singing the praises of God to worry about little old me, but I really wish that you would. Maybe you are off on some great adventure. Maybe you’ve been reincarnated and get to start all over again. I hope you learn to fly a plane in this life; I know that that was a big dream of yours in this one. I hope you have a happier childhood than the one you had here.
I hope that you’re okay, Dad.
Love,
Deanna