little lights in the darkness

I always knew that you liked the stage a lot. You dragged me to shows - brand new ones and revivals, the classics and avant garde productions that I could not make heads or tails out of - at least twice a month for over six years. And I also know that you knew that I mostly went for you, at least at first, but I warmed up to it, eventually. The first time I went without you, I almost broke down, but I swear that I could feel your hand squeeze mine during those scenes (Gavroche, every time). I still feel you lip sync to the songs - never sing, that would be terribly rude, of course - and it makes me feel close to you, even now.

Still, I didn’t realize why you liked the smaller productions, why you dragged me to community shows or even children’s theatre with six graders with just as much fervor as the Broadway Tony winners. I always thought it was about supporting the arts and especially the youth, about making sure that the actors and crew always had someone to cheer for them, someone to appreciate their hard work and dedication.

I see it now, and I think that it’s what you saw as well, though I can’t be sure. The actors, the stage, the orchestra when it’s a musical - all of it is so bright. It’s an aura around each of them, a blanket of light. A weave, a spell, a manifestation of good luck, of a good performance, of good.

-

“You know that saying… the one about the moral arc of the universe?” You asked, one night, from the hospital bed, and I looked up from doing completely useless research on stage IV cancer. 

“What?” I asked. I wasn’t feeling that there was a lot of justice in the world at that moment. 

“You don’t win every battle,” you said.

“Are we talking about…” I didn’t want to finish the sentence. 

“You’ll put in the time, and the effort, and sometimes, you still won’t win the battle. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t worth doing.”

I cocked an eyebrow at you, and when you reached out a hand, I got up and sat down on your bed so you could push it down, and we both laughed.

-

I understand what you did now before the shows. It was almost every small show, but sometimes also the big ones. After watching you approach everyone from lighting techs to play directors - and that one time you somehow managed to talk to absolute Broadway Royalty, I thought it was just the charisma you had plus game recognizing game from those that live and breathe theatre. 

But now I see the aura of the performance, and more importantly than that, I see that just a little bit more to one of the actors, an extra word, an extra piece of encouragement, may make the difference between a blanket that unravels and one that comes together to protect the performance.

Sometimes, I reassure them, I encourage them, I wish them luck, I tell them to break a leg, and they still falter. Each time, I wonder if I could’ve done better, if there were more words, or a stronger ritual, a better way of protecting them. But each time, the performance goes on, and at the end, they take their bows, the audience applauds, and it feels… right, somehow. Like maybe it would’ve been worse, without my intervention.

I feel your lips on my cheek.

-

You were so calm the night that we got married - it was closing time and the venue needed us out and gone and our limo had broken down and we ended with boxes and a mess outside and there was no room in the car for us and and and… and you just looked up from your phone, stood up, twirled a bit, and said that we needed to leave right now to catch the last train. 

It was two transfers and an hour longer than it should’ve been, and somehow, we caught each transfer, each last train, across three boroughs. And before boarding each car, you would mutter something under your breath, close your eyes, for a moment, and press your palm to the door.

I remember asking - somewhere around 70th street, one transfer down, one to go, just the two of us in our finery on a mostly empty train at 1am - what you were doing.

“A ritual,” you said. “I’m putting my intent in the world. This one is for security.”

You said it seriously, and I had learned by then - after all, we were married - that you meant it seriously. 

I raised an eyebrow, my patented ‘excuse me, wife, what do you mean’ expression.

You smirked, and pushed it back down.

“Rituals mean something,” you continued. “You instill a bit of what you want into the world, and with enough intent, you might be able to nudge things in the direction that you want. My parents taught me that, and their parents before them, and all the way back to our ancestors.”

That was the first time that you told me what it meant to you. Of course, I thought you meant it figuratively then, but I’m sure you knew that, just as you knew that I would eventually learn. 

-

I see it outside of the stage, of course. Glowing lines that exist, briefly, when someone crosses themselves, when someone calls on their ancestors, when someone does any number of things where they put a wish into the world. Most dissipate after a bit, but every once in a while, there’s enough of a desire, an intent, that it stays. 

I see it in the day to day of a million New Yorkers going about their days, each wishing for a bit of good luck, a bit of serendipity, a bit of happiness. And sometimes, every so often, it feels like I feel like the universe responds. An aspiring actor friend wishes for a bit of good luck in her love life, and she meets someone at the coffee shop she works at. A family friend calls on the ancestors to help for a promotion, and is given a chance to prove themselves.

You know what I wish I could’ve shown you, though? We never went to the Empire State while we were dating - we were both locals, so it didn’t make any sense to pay so much money for something that we lived in every single day. 

And yet, if only you could’ve seen - from up here, each light stand, each wishline, each whatever you call it - there are so many rituals that extend beyond just wishes for themselves. They are wishes for their neighbors, their partners, their friends, all the strangers that inhabit this city together. The aura permeates every nook and cranny of the city. 

It doesn’t mean that only good things happen, of course. You taught me that, in more ways than one. But every time I look at the news, every time I’m depressed, I come up here, and I look at it, and I see what it means. 

The moral arc of the universe is long, but it bends towards justice. Towards happiness. Towards joy.

-

You were sitting there, in the library, studying for an upcoming test that we had in biochemistry. I saw you before you saw me, and honestly, I would’ve kept going, but you did this thing with your hands - a ritual, I know now. I never asked about it, at first because I didn’t think it was appropriate, and later, because I didn’t need to.

I saw you make that sign a few more times, in the time we had together, and each time, the universe responded.

You asked for joy, and joy is what we found.

And now, it's on me to carry on the work, to pass that joy on to others.