BoyTrapped: The Tapestry

If I could draw the moment, I think I would start with a boot, draped in pants. Which probably sounds as ridiculous as I would hope it would look. Because to capture the moment, my pencil would have to capture ridiculous.

If I could freeze time, I would catch Stephanie mid-story and BreaAnna mid-laugh. Melina would be primping her bow in the reflection offered by her own shadow. Alisa's eyebrows would be arched in equal parts amusement and thought.

And I would be happy.

But I am neither the Master of Time and Space nor an artist. I have only what some lovingly refer to as the words I sometimes vomit onto my computer (thanks, Skye) and the endless analogies that course through my veins.

This time, it is a tapestry.

I am so grateful for the HUGE number of friends that have come to see the front of the tapestry, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers at the Empress. Seriously. So grateful.

But while the performing is rewarding, it is not why I do theater. There is so much more that the audience doesn't see. If you could spend an evening backstage, you would get to see the tapestry's underside. (And hear a whole lot of funny and occasionally inappropriate conversations, but "that's another story... nevermind...")

Oh, I have done some shows with a backstage tapestry that looked something akin to a 6 year old's first cross-stitch. But in my favorite shows, backstage runs like clockwork, each thread overlapping in the same pattern night after night, creating a design not meant to be displayed but organized and beautiful in its own way.

If I could draw the moments, I could weave the threads. I could capture the tapestry and keep it. And I wish I could. In some way I can't quite explain, I know that my threads in the show have sewn some necessary pieces of my soul back into place. And I worry that on Saturday when we bow for the final time whether my thread alone will be enough to hold the tenuous happiness in.

Here are just a few of the threads I hope to keep after the lights go down.

Alex, whose thread is that special kind that changes colors so smoothly that you've suddenly reached green before you even realized you have left blue: when he waits for me at the bottom of the stairs as I tear around the corner straight from an exit, his hand extended and his face betraying his worry that we will miss our cue.
Logan, whose thread I cannot see but instinctively know runs in organized, parallel lines, strengthening the whole tapestry: when he passes me in the dark as he exits and I enter before the lullaby and we each extend a blind hand to wrap a brief arm around the other's middle.
The Brides, a colorfully braided strand that cannot be separated without damaging the composition: when we sat in the hallway before receiving our gifts, overlapping our skirts and turning the hallway into one big quilt.
Nick, a dark brown that blends effortlessly in and out of the patterns: when he stands in silence then wordlessly offers me his hand just before our entrance.
Jordan, an unassuming gray completely unaware of the depth his presence adds to the palette: when he says, "Thank you," every time I help him change his shirt.
Roy, a vibrant neon that cannot quite distract from the symmetrical patterns in which it is woven: when he threw his shirt over three brothers in a dark hallway and it landed precisely on my shoulder, when he carefully sets me down and stabilizes my balance until I no longer have a blanket on my head, and when he counts down the moments until Logan turns the corner to climb the ladder.
Gaylon and Julie, two shades of tan, used nearly always in tandem: when they smile at me every time I dance or flit or spin through the green room carefully arranging their expressions to hide from me the fact that they think I am a bit crazy.
Raymond, a noticeable orange, confident in any configuration: when he creeps to the music of the suitor's final crossing.
Evan, whatever the unicorn equivalent is for thread: when the only thing predictable is his unpredictability and his ability to make me smile.
Michelle, the edges to which all threads must eventually lead: when she doesn't let anyone else zip her dress and I love knowing she needs me for a minute.

Sure, many of these people are legitimately a part of my normal life. So in theory, maybe the tapestry will hold a bit longer. But I've done this before, and I know how it works. Saturday night as we turn in the costumes and strike the set, each of us will tug a bit at our strings. At first the tapestry will stretch, straining to cover its new dimensions. But it won't hold for long. Each vibrant strand will walk away, weaving already into the next design, forming already the next picturesque moment.

If I could freeze time, I would catch Stephanie mid-story and BreaAnna mid-laugh. Melina would be primping her bow in the reflection offered by her own shadow. Alisa's eyebrows would be arched in equal parts amusement and thought.

And I would be happy.