Eugene Stevenson

The number grows year by year, the faces fresh as yesterday or today, smiles as real as newly minted coins.

More often than not, they participate in the storylines, no matter how tortured or confusing or intricate.

My language deserts me this morning as I try to reconcile my role long ago in feeding whatever they had to accept.

Some nights, they play brief walk-ons, others, speaking roles, in support of the lead. After all, the script is mine.

Entrance right: they walk into the room, eye contact, a pause in the step, smiles either flood or pinpoint the scene in light.

Center stage, back of the head, curls so familiar, I could extend my hand to touch, but do not, wait for her to turn, face me.

Stage left, head down, turns to throw me the stink-eye, disapprobation even I could not miss or mistake for greeting.

Or worse, somewhere in the second act, music fades, sounds of activity here rise, upturned lips turn down. Cold surrounds.

The day is littered with thoughts of night, the daily rushes flicker back to who they were, the population of those dreams.