Those Morrison Days

1. In Memoriam

The peeling red velvet seats are empty, left alone of whoever sat in them. Ghosts or unseen forces may as well be the only way to truly fill these neglected rows. Only the slight, faint echoes of the orchestra's strings and horns of previous performances reverberate from the walls even still. The old wooden stage still has the bad echo with each step. Not even the curtains were spared of their owner's absence as the gray dust settles along the fabric.

Alone I stood in my tuxedo on the stage, with violin in hand. The silence applauds me, waiting to see the act they anticipate to see.

I pull up a decrepit chair, one of the only few that the children of the audience of a previous performance had clawed at the upper right corner, unwilling to budge or separate from the show. The stuffing of it had even protruded outward, showcasing the hidden cushion far from respectable to see. Scooting the chair closer to me sends an echo through the room. The wretched groaning of old, hardwood. At last, I take my seat for my crowd of none.

The imaginary sound of a piano acting as my introduction plays out the starting notes of Gymnopedie One, cueing our inevitable partnership. Once the right moment occurs, I join in at last, letting the sound spiral through these depraved halls of the dignity it once had. One could only imagine the hopeful optimism that a musician grants to their audience. Oh, what lovely pain nostalgia brings, to miss these sweet golden days.

The essence of Gymnopedie One flows through the air, a feeling of simplicity, a feeling of regret turning over in its cycle. What a miracle that only a few strings and simple keys could produce the sound of rebuilding oneself.

As the melody nears its end, the false piano that rests behind me lets out one final note, the mere ache of an aged man letting out his final breath. My phantom partner and I take a bow to our quiet applause as invisible roses hop onto the stage.

The image slowly fades back into decrepit reality of dust and emptiness. The hum of the power generator outside and the commotion of traffic and airplane engines as the only real noises. What beauty these individuals will never hear once more.

"Never let them take you," I whisper to this old theater, my wrinkly hand brushing the curtain.

A hesitant clap sounds off, quickly becoming an applause of one. A mere boy in glasses and a cheap suit and tie sitting alone in the center of these chairs is actually applauding. I never thought I would see the day when a mere youth would take interest in this old theater as I do.