Leah Hickey

Without love, there’s no reason to live.
Without you, what would I do with the love I give?

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- Thinking of You by Sister Sledge, from the album We Are Family, released 1979.

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I arrive with baited breath, and sit alone beneath clear, dark skies. Caressed by the cold of October, I wring my hands and check the time. I wait. Slowly emerging, eyes dart to the open doors before me. A familiar face and soft hand leads the way, as I retreat into a different kind of darkness.

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I sink alone into velvet, ruby-stemmed fingertips pulling tightly at my sleeves. Kisses and whispers and fragile smiles, and then, it begins.

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Enter, stage left: A spectral ballerina bathed in ivory, plagued by diamantés. Pointe shoes atop their feet - pearly-white and glossed - resemble a kind of coffin. Small, silver plaques, engraved, glimmer in the light. They dance in the dark.

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In the pits of it, trembling and teary, I see before me perfect piles of what appear to be belongings, of a loved one once upon this Earth. These piles - pearls, trinkets, tchotchkes - begin to slowly glow, one by one, as if illuminated by magik.

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The lightest touch of a minor key.

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A message from God, a long lost memory, a light to lead the way.

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I think of those piles once on my Father’s bed, on the floor, in the hallway, in my arms. Lost oddities: glass, plastic, cotton, paper, old and new and in-between. Useless, beautiful.

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In silence - somber and mild - the ballerina delicately sets forth. Towering stilts abound, a dance ensues akin to tightrope walking. As each soft, lilac light leads the way, they tentatively follow. A ghost is here, divine. Body propped by crutches, I wince. Their face is pained and I understand them.

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Scene: Light projects death, and all are horrified. A gentle creature, coat speckled chestnut, hangs beheaded, blood-letted, as tears stream down my cheeks. I cannot watch, nor can I look away.

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The whirring mechanics of the abattoir ensue, frame by frame by frame, relentlessly so. Five figures exit the theatre.

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I cannot watch. Sat still, tense, trembling and frozen, I cannot look away.

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The ballerina ventures further into the factory floor, wading through uniformed workers. The ground is wet, cold. Soft palm to carcass, a gentle ear presses against fur-sodden flesh: measured, steady, waiting. I wonder what they pine for. Heart-aching, bile rises and I close my eyes.

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Scene: Candles, white, are set alight amidst the rolling, nocturnal fog. Candelabras of black wrought iron paint a picture of purgatory: expansive, listless. I must weep again.

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Butterfly (defiant):
There is no law which tells me how to grieve.

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The thick, gothic fog forms a plume, pearlescent and aching, beneath soft stage light. Before them, a box, glossed ochre, sits amidst a shrine. Atop, a plaque of gold, inscribed with the name of a lover, a friend, a soul destined for the beyond. Birth year, death year, all together.

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With delicate nails, the urn is pried open. Blackened ashes fall away like fine sand, as the butterfly before me gathers a heaped-silver-spoonful. Slow and measured, they bring it to their lips. Closing their eyes, they consume. I cry.

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Butterfly (mournful):
I am his body. I am his grave.

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The heavy, winter fog emboldens, pouring, pooling, rising into centre stage. A fixture of horror. Turning from me, wax candle flames flickering, they retreat into nothing, for good.

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When we die, where do we go, and who will greet us at the gates? What becomes of our loves, fears and aspirations? Are we stardust, or soil?

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Scene: I stand alone betwixt the wind, wishing for a body to hold me.

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Angel (pitiful):
Oh, babe! Are you alright?