This friend says the last days are the hardest. I pull out a book of relevant historical references to confirm this diagnosis.

As the minutes pass, a sudden thought travels from my gut to a memory. We dance by the light of a thought traveling so fast as to feel like wind around a temple of contemplation.

At first I may seem to be gentle, but only on the surface. She waits for the next line. Something in her face tells me that she is concerned, but will react in the proper manner no matter what I say.

I turn to the audience holding my breath, Covered in the colors of knowledge and apprehension, I seek an apparition in the audience of my elders.

Suddenly a sigh as the cellist, who's name I cannot remember at this moment. seeks solace in memories of his mothers embrace when he fell to the ground as a reckless six year old. All this and I remember my line, the actress is relieved and the play continues...........