And the words are now smoother, lower, as he comes to the end and we wait, stunned and heartbroken at this ending, bereft at his leaving, speechless after his words. And then he and the smooth words are finally ended. The curtain falls. He exits... stage left.
The Songbird The Songbird, she sang, she sang each and every day, she sang all day and even in some of the places she wasn’t supposed to sing, she sang out loud and in her head, tunes of her life, tunes that were memories, tunes that she felt were meaningful, and some songs that bore no consequence at all. She sang loudly in the services and so Sundays were a dream; happy just to be singing, just to be with others so it would seem, in this little church where she had found the way. The Songbird she sat by the old ladies, dressed even when it was mild and warm in their woolly hats and scarves, in darned stockings and comfy shoes, their brooches, hat pins and their twinkling antique charms, in this little church where they had found their way. The Songbird she sang as loudly as she could for the joys of life and of living, and she made up for all the congregation who were perhaps less than capable of such vocal giving. The Songbird had always found her joy in song and the company of others and had found within this little parish a substitute for the distance of a long-absent mother. When she had lost her one true love in some misguided conflict, 29