On the Verge of a Third Wave Smile

A log cabin.  It is raining out the window.  Emily, a young girl, sits looking gracefully out the window at something that isn’t there.  She transfer’s her vision to a piece of paper with crayons that are dull and broken and fill a woven basket about halfway.  Racey, Emily’s mother, rocks in a rocking chair.  This woman’s spirit has long since drowned in her child’s dark eyes.  She knows that this child lacks real friendship and is fettered in her own world of babbles and visions.

Emily: Mommy why do the beard men move into trees so shallow that they fall into puddles?

Racey: Quiet Emily.

Dodo, Emily’s father, walks through the door, his clothes drenched.  He carries an armful of chopped wood and walks to the wood stove, puts a few pieces in and lays the rest on the floor. 

Racey: (to Dodo) She’s doing it.

Dodo: Who?  What?

Racey: Emily, she’s babbling, every raindrop brings a new bout of incoherence.

Dodo: (kneeling by Emily) My little girl sees poetry in the rain?  (hugging her)

Emily: The sun rises days ago when men squeezed me tight, the rain told me so.

Dodo: (to Racey) See that made some sense, no?

Racey: It’s just not normal Do.

Dodo is a very understanding father, he has patienece that Racey has long since lost for Emily.

Emily: A flower head told me that this is right, but what’s wrong (thunder explodes outside) is my mother dead?

Dodo: Quiet Emily, it’s ugly out.

Stage goes dark.

Emily: (to audience) The doves fly by as we lay in the grass and everything fades.