Dec 05
Announcements
I had a dream
about people who are near-death
singing onstage to an audience.
Most were old but some just unlucky
like my college friend Phil, 41,
dying of Pancreatic cancer.
The place near death was the size of an amphitheater
but felt surprisingly intimate,
like a neighborhood bar where you knew each patron.
The accouterments were simple: two white spotlights,
a camera panning the stage, a few junky monitors.
When it was his turn, Phil strode to the mic,
gazed into the camera with a performer’s flair,
and began crooning 80’s ballads.
Up-close, his face was craggy as granite,
but his optimism was so buoyant, his strength so palpable,
it was easy to forget he was sick.
But his performance wasn’t quite the end.
Weeks later, he returned to the stage one last time.
Now he could barely stand.
His body was frail, shrunken.
With what he had left, he sang R.E.M. 's Everybody Hurts.
The rendition felt almost transcendent,
his voice lifting us into a realm we’d never experienced.
The audience rose as one,
their applause thunderous, echoing through the balcony.
Phil stood, slightly hunched. He couldn't bow,
but the cheers seemed to give him strength.
Slowly, he raised his hand toward the balcony––
not quite a wave, but a gesture of gratitude.
He smiled, his pain masked by a quiet dignity,
knowing what we all knew––
this would be the last time we’d see him.
After Phil exited, the camera fixed onto the microphone.
We waited for the next performer.
The name Ben N. flashed on the monitors.
But where was he?
Murmurs began to grow.
Then, a man stumbled from behind the curtain.
He gripped the microphone.
There was a lingering pause.
“I––I’m sorry…”
His voice trembled, unable to finish his phrase.
The murmurs turned silent.
We all thought he would back away, but he didn’t.
His presence was so discomforting no one could look.
No one, except me.
There was something familiar––
the slouch of his shoulders,
the frayed cuffs of his tweed suit,
the twitchy intonations in his voice.
It took me a moment of recollection,
scrolling through the index of my past
to realize it was the Ben I knew––my college roommate.
Last I heard, he was healthy.
Why was he here?
Then, I figured it out:
The last time I reached out to him––
almost five years ago ––I received no reply.
Ben had always felt camouflaged,
stationed quietly in the background of my friends
until one day I noticed he was gone.
My last email from him said:
I’m sorry I’m so bad at staying in touch.
The resentment I had harbored subsided,
transforming into something deeper, more raw––
a sadness both for him, and our fading friendship.
After their stage appearances, and the dream being a dream,
Phil and Ben were both transported
to a winterscape on our Bates college campus in Maine.
This was not a performance,
but a scene I had come to view, revealed through a portal.
From afar, I watched them frolic in the snow on Frye street
outside the house where we first met,
their laughter almost warm enough
to melt the icicles hanging from its rooftop.
Even from the portal’s depths, I could feel it––
their innocence, of time and its damages.
I called out, but my voice struck a barrier.
Instead of reaching them, it bounced back.
What was happening?
Then the scene began to change:
our picturesque campus turned into a dark tundra.
I could only watch as Phil and Ben become motionless,
trapped inside a giant slab of ice.
Snow settled onto them, covering them completely.
They were gone.
In their place was a light, so magnetic it drew me closer.
I followed it through the portal’s sea of black, further
and further. Then, all at once, the light disappeared.
Wishing to escape the darkness, I began to grope.
I could actually feel it––the darkness, smooth and cool, almost silken.
My fingers found a stitch that led to an end.
I pulled up on it, slightly.
To my shock, the light returned––
stronger than before, swallowing everything.
I squinted. Steadily, my vision began to clear.
I could make out a stage, an audience.
A chant arose, building louder and louder.
They were expecting me.
Then, as if by invisible force,
the curtain separated. I was onstage.
The audience cheered.
I approached the microphone.
The camera closed in.
The lights turned low.
All went quiet––
except for me. I cleared my throat.
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