Little Things Nobody Remembers

By Matt McHugh

We duck below the foot-thick beams under the stage, only the light from our phones’ LEDs showing the way. We step over old pipes and boards, all the expected debris of a hundred-year-old theater that's been abandoned for twenty. On the raw brick of the rear wall, there's a hole— a rectangle opening to pure blackness. It’s half the height of a door, and we almost have to crawl to get through.

Inside, our phone lights seem to sweep into nothingness, like we've reached the bottom of the ocean.

“You can stand up,” says Sam.

I reach over my head, waving my hand as I straighten my knees. Sam hunts along the wall, then says, “Watch your eyes.”

There's a switch snap and light bursts around me. As my vision adjusts, I find I’m in a sprawling storage room crammed with racks and shelves, all lit by bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling.

“Wow,” I say predictably. “What a find.”

“So, you see this, right? This room?”

“Yes.”

“How big would you say it is?”

I look around.

“Well, it seems to be the same width as the stage so that's, what? Seventy feet? Depth looks about half that, so thirty or forty feet. Ten... maybe twelve-foot ceilings.”

“So, a big-ass room.”

“I’m not as well-versed in architectural terminology as you, but I’ll agree.”

Sam sweeps his hand, encompassing everything we see.

“It doesn't exist,” he says.

“Say again?”

“This room. This seventy-by-forty-by-twelve-foot room, behind the main stage, does not exist.”

“So, we're sniffing gas fumes leaking from the ground?”

“Think about it,” he says. “That's the back wall of the building. You've been up there. The stage, a brick wall, then the exterior. There's no box sticking out the back.”

“We're in an underground basement,” I say.

“With a twelve-foot ceiling? I’ve looked at the original plans and current sewage maps. There are drainage pipes, dug in the seventies, eight feet deep, running right on the property line. There’s no room for a basement.”

I look around. If anything, it seems larger than before, racks and cabinets stacked into a cityscape bounded by pale green cinder block walls.

“I am telling you —and I know how it sounds— based on the plans, the layout, and every measure I can make, the room we are standing in... Does... Not... Exist.”

The Euterpe Theatre is smack in the middle of a small Pennsylvania town slowly gentrifying itself back to life from the near-mortal blow of mines and mills shuttered decades ago. It's an obsolete performance-house-slash-movie-palace, now a neglected eyesore. For the last two years, I've been part of a group of volunteers writing letters and badgering officials to prevent its demolition.

The Theatre had its undeniable glory days in the 1920s, when movies and recorded music were still novelties, and vaudeville was the driving engine of American culture. Before they were immortals, the likes of Abbott and Costello, Duke Ellington, and Fred Astaire were circuit entertainers, trundling town to town to places like this, high points in the hard lives of factory workers and foundry smiths.

Sure, I’m romanticizing— but unchain the doors and step into the ruins of The Euterpe’s lobby, and you'll understand. Patches of royal red still glow on the threadbare carpet. Soaring columns, pockmarked with plaster divots, rise to a vaulted ceiling with gilded mosaics of constellations. The balcony entrance is a grande, dual staircase with balusters askew like crooked teeth.

Sometimes, I’ll just stare, picturing its glorious prime. I see ushers in jackets with epaulets. Girls in sequins selling candy and trinkets. Children tugging at their mothers, everyone dressed in their Sunday finest to honor the splendor of the venue. Places like this were built to be romanticized.

And finally, after years of petitions, we’ve been granted access to show the place to potential investors. We have very little time —and even fewer resources— to make it presentable before a hastily arranged “open house” next Sunday. So, as fascinating as Sam’s non-existent room may be, I have more pressing concerns.

Among our band of sorry volunteers, I got the job of carpenter since I’m the only one that seems to have a clue how to hang shelves. I own a little florist shop that barely scrapes by so, out of necessity, I've learned to fix things— but my meager skills are sorely tested by decades of neglect in the lobby. I scrape out broken ticket windows and toss them in a rented dumpster. Sections of wainscoting have come loose, so that’s just some finishing nails. The sill under a leaky window has rotted away and I replace it with scrap wood I trash-picked. The putty holding the glass falls out in chunks, so I just run a bead of caulk around the frame. Muck-it and fuck-it, as my father used to say.

I clean, polish, sweep, and shop-vac the lobby as best as I can. I’ve been at this since mid-afternoon, and it’s almost midnight. I’m layered with dust, bone-tired, a little dizzy from cleaner fumes, but I have to admit the place does look better— forgotten rather than condemned. On the lobby walls are phantom rectangles where posters once hung. I think how great it would look to have some to put up... and I remember the mystery storeroom.

I won't lie. The idea of going back there alone freaks me out, but I’ve become obsessed with quote-unquote, finishing the job. I get a real flashlight and go into the theater itself.

Ever been in a pitch-black, abandoned theater? The cool-to-creepy ratio is about as perfect as you can get. A cavernous space with all sorts of nooks and crannies for goblins to sneak up on you. A crystal chandelier that's hung for a century, just waiting for the moment you walk under it to come crashing down. Disney’s Haunted Mansion got nothing on the cherub faces carved into the capitals, watching you with lidless Pumpkinhead eyes. It’s almost a relief when I get to the orchestra pit and crouch to go under the stage... until I remember, in Shakespeare's day, they called that “Hell.”

I'm pretty spooked by the time I find the mystery room and fumble for the switch. The lights coming on are a big help. If whistling-in-a-graveyard relieves tension, this is like a cemetery with mood-lighting and soft jazz. I start to look around.

What magnificent stuff! Ornate sectional tables. A hand-carved throne. Wooden swords and spears. Props. Hats. Costumes. Painted backdrops on wood and canvas. Album after album of old photos and newspaper clippings. I find a rack with dozens of framed movie posters. W.C. Fields and the Marx Brothers. Esther Williams and Josephine Baker. The motherlode!

I'm flipping through when... well, I’ve heard it said the most terrifying thing in the world is a human figure where you don't expect to see one. I never truly understood that until, in the corner of my eye, I catch a silhouette that was not there a moment before.

“SWEET MOTHER OF GOD!”

I jump. I scream. I trip over a box of klieg lights and fall splat on my keister. The figure takes a step toward me, puts out a hand.

“Oh my! Are you alright?”

I’m sprawled on the concrete floor, gasping, looking up at a grandmother —bulky sweater overlayed with faux pearls and a cameo brooch, silver-highlighted hair with deep waves pushed into an elaborate bun— reaching as if to help me up.

“Uh…” I say.

“I seem to have given you quite a scare. I'm sorry about that. Here.”

She bends stiffly and takes my arm, starting to pull me up. Her hands are small, warm, real.

“Are you hurt?”

I manage to shake my head. “I'm OK.”

“Can I help you find something?”

I'm stuttering, panting. “Who… who are you?”

“I'm Esmeralda. Esmeralda Klein. And you are?”

“Lisa. Lisa Barelli.”

“Pleased to meet you, dear. You’re interested in posters?”

Poster? What's a poster? I look at the stack I was just rifling through. Oh. I nod. “For the lobby,” I say.

“How many?”

I picture the empty rectangles on the wall. “Six, I think? Maybe, eight.”

“Well, we have plenty. Let me show you my favorites.”

She leads me to a huge cabinet. There she pulls out ancient flyers for traveling strongmen and magicians. Gorgeous art nouveau banners for operas and ballets. Playbills from concerts: Buddy Holly, Little Richard, Diana Ross, the Grateful Dead. Mint-condition posters for The Godfather and Star Wars.

“See anything you like?”

“How... how did you get here?”

“What do you mean, dear?”

“How are you here, in the Theatre, right now?”

“Oh, I volunteered to help. They pay me a little, barely enough for lunch, truth be told, but I don’t need much. I get to see all the shows I want, meet the performers. Really, I should be paying them!”

She laughs, the sound so stunning because it is so natural.

“There’s always something to do around here. Little things nobody remembers. They book Caruso and nobody thinks to bring him a pitcher of water with lemon? When Burns and Allen do their ‘yesterday's newspaper’ skit, it helps if somebody gets them a newspaper. So, which do you want?”

“What?”

“Which posters? If you like I can pick some out for you.”

“Uh... OK.”

She reaches out, rubs my arm a little. I’m not tall and she’s a head shorter than me. “If you don't mind my saying so, you look tired. Go home and get some rest. Come by tomorrow and I'll have these ready for you.”

“OK. Um… thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, dear.”

I feel myself drifting backward, walking away. I come to the half-door leading back to the theater. I can hear her, rifling through drawers and humming to herself. I step through the wall. I still hear her. I turn on my flashlight and duck under the stage until I reach the orchestra pit. I look back. I don’t hear her anymore. The light in the half-door goes black.

I run like hell.

The next morning, I get up, open the shop, fill orders for weddings and anniversaries and a sweet-sixteen party... all the while feeling like I'm moving through liquid, like the world is mirror-inverted.

I get a text from Sam: The lobby looks FANTASTIC!!! You did a great job!

I'm trying to remember what the lobby looked like. I can see it, tattered and in ruins. I can also see it brand new, filled with families and the smell of kettle corn. I’m not sure which I saw last.

Thanks. I type back. I think I found some posters to hang up as well.

Awesome. See you soon.

At three o’clock, I close up the shop and walk to The Euterpe. Sam’s inside, in the old manager’s office. He’s shoved aside boxes to make a space on the desk for his laptop.

“Check it out,” he says, turning the screen toward me. “I've got replies from three property managers, four developers, and somebody who says says he’s a ‘venture capitalist.’”

Sam is a real estate agent who has hit hard times. He thinks The Euterpe —which is owned by a bankrupt county trust that just wants it gone— is a slumbering gold mine. If he can get buy-in from an investor and a developer and a management company and a non-union theater troupe, he can make the score of a lifetime. So he’s said.

“Are they all going to come?” I ask.

“We’ll see,” he replies, realistically. “By the way, thanks again for all your work. The place really looks great. You said you found posters?”

“I did. You got a minute? I’d like you to see something.”

I lead Sam into the theater and once more we go spelunking under the stage. When I turn on the storeroom lights I see eight framed posters set out along the wall. Laurel and Hardy. Lena Horne. Cab Calloway and the Nicholas Brothers. Casablanca. La Traviata. Kiss Me, Kate. The Pirates of Penzance. Citizen Kane.

“Wow!” exclaims Sam. “These are fantastic!”

“I’m so glad you like them, dear.”

Esmeralda is at my side. No footsteps. No spectral glow. She is just there, as real as I am. Sam’s face is a still-frame of panic.

“Esmeralda, this is Sam Stevens. Sam, Esmeralda Klein.”

“Very pleased to meet you.”

Sam shakes hands with her but still can’t seem to manage a syllable.

“Is it OK if I take the posters to the lobby?” I ask Esmeralda.

“Of course.”

I pick up one. I go over to the small door. I pass it through, half-expecting it to vanish in my hands. It doesn’t. I put the rest in a stack, making Sam carry the back as I take the front.

“Is there anything else I can get for you?” asks Esmeralda.

I think for a moment. “I saw a lot of photo albums. Could you pick out some? Maybe with news clippings when the Theatre opened, or photos of famous acts?”

Esmeralda puckers and taps her chin. “Hmm,” she says. “There’s so many. Let's see what we can find.”

She turns and goes off between the aisles, muttering. Her feet tapping as she walks remind me of Charlie Chaplin making dinner rolls dance on forks.

Sam and I wrangle the posters out, under the stage, and back to the orchestra pit. He’s said nothing the whole time, but I still put a finger to my lips as I point back to the doorway. The light goes off.

“No…” is all Sam can say.

“I know.”

Later, at a bar, a few beers between us, we at last talk freely.

“She’s a ghost,” he says. “I mean, what else?”

“But she's real,” I argue. “She has a body. She’s warm. She tidies up. Who ever heard of a poltergeist who tidies up?”

“Maybe our understanding of ghost-hood is wrong. It’s not a disembodied spirit. It’s a person that…” he fumbles for a word, “...persists?”

The next evening, we visit Esmeralda together. Sam’s dumbstruck stupor is gone but he is still subdued, nowhere near the full-on pitchman I’ve seen whip town meetings into a firestorm of fist-pumping huzzahs. He tells the truth, but with softened edges. He blurs the passage of time, dances around mentioning dates. The potential destruction of the Theatre is not hammered with alarmist threats but woven into a tapestry of nostalgia.

“People need to remember this place,” he says. “Would you be willing to come meet the members of our group?”

“I’d love to, dear.”

I’m almost sick with anticipation, the butterflies in my stomach dialed up to a hornet’s nest. Sam ducks through the half-door then reaches back. Esmeralda takes his hand, holds her hair bun with her other hand, and bends and steps through. Sam guides her out to the orchestra pit.

We managed to find the emergency lights in the theater, so the space is lit with harsh shafts above the exit doors. Esmeralda looks around at the messy aisles and battered seats, the dust rising in the lights and cobwebs hanging from the chandelier.

“So sad,” is all she says.

We pause inside the lobby as Sam opens the door for her. She crosses the threshold and steps out into the air of a cool Spring evening. She looks up at the sunset-streaked sky and smiles, then glances back at the battered marquee and frowns. As we walk down the block, Esmeralda points out where the old firehouse used to be. This building was Smith’s Department Store, with a soda-fountain and lunch counter. And there, those lines in the street near the crosswalk. They were the trolley rails.

In a few minutes, we arrive at a local pub and bring Esmeralda inside. Seated at a table in the back are the half-dozen other members of our little Save The Euterpe! group. Sam makes the introduction.

“Guys, I’d like you all to meet Esmeralda Klein. She used to work at the Theatre.”

She is royally welcomed. Space is made and a chair is drawn up for her. They’re a chatty lot and in full swing tonight. They gush praise and pepper her with questions, barely letting her answer before rolling on, recycling the rants I’ve heard many times.

“There’s always money for new bleachers or lights at the high school field, but nothing to preserve something truly unique right in the middle of town.”

“When I was running a theater company after college all we cared about was the work. Anyone wanted to be a prima donna, and we were like —buh-bye! Don't need ya!”

“It's the small-minded people that run this town. The mayor’s a plumber and half the population moves dirt for a living. None of them have an artistic bone in their bodies.”

“I’ve worked with major —I mean major— P.R. agencies in New York, L.A., London. This one time, I’m at a photo shoot for Helen Mirren, right? So we get to talking and I’m telling her about all the shit we have to go through to get anyone in this town to give a damn about the theater and she’s being all, like, Helen Mirren-y, you know, like... ‘Oh my Gawhd, rrreally?’!”

“Nobody has any sense of history around here. No awareness that something might be important outside their gossipy little circle.”

Esmeralda listens. She is addressed from time to time and tries to chime in, but the conversation generally steamrolls past her. She sips the same glass of white wine the whole time and winces, eyes watering, when a massive plate of Buffalo wings is deposited near her— though she does nibble on the celery.

After an hour or so, I make eye contact with Sam and raise my eyebrows. He nods and gives me a downlow OK. I lean over to Esmeralda and say, “I'm getting a little tired. I think it might be time to go.”

“If you think so, dear.”

I make our good-byes. From the group, there’s gushing about Esmeralda's “insight” and “inspiration” but, tellingly, no invitations to meet again. We pause by the door and, as I put my jacket on, I see Esmeralda scanning across the dozen large-screen TVs around the bar and peering at customers on their smartphones.

Outside, she hooks my arm in the sweetest, old-fashioned way and we walk elbow-locked along the quiet street. She chats about what a nice group of friends I have, and I don’t have the heart to tell her they mostly annoy the bejeezus out of me.

“We all want to see the Theatre running again,” I say instead. “We need it, I think. Something real. Not just entertainment —lord knows we have enough of that— but an actual gathering place. We’re constantly connected but always alone.”

Esmeralda pats my hand. “Loneliness is nothing new, dear. When you have so many distractions, you don’t notice it as much. When you do, it’s harder to bear.”

We walk side by side, and I can feel it in the silence, the bittersweet loneliness.

“Do you... do you need a place to stay?” I ask.

“Oh no. I’m fine. But thank you for asking. What about you?"

“I live alone.”

“A pretty young girl like you? I bet the boys bother you all the time.”

I laugh. “Oh, they bother me, alright. I bother them right back.”

She laughs. “You have such a wonderful sense of style. I've never seen a woman with hair like yours, all swept over one way with a crew cut on the side. It’s like Veronica Lake joined the Army.”

We both laugh.

“I had a young man once,” she says. “But he went off. To the war. No others came knocking, so I spent more and more time at the Theatre. I found plenty to love there, but I still miss him. Do you have anyone special, dear?”

I hesitate. I'm not sure what to say. This kind-hearted soul from another era and my truth... can they coexist? I can’t see the outcome. It’s like a door into a dark room. I take a breath, and step inside.

“I had a girlfriend. But she left, so I’ve been on my own for a while.”

Esmeralda stops. She turns and looks up at me. She puts a hand on my cheek.

“The right one will come along. You just wait and see, dear.”

We continue, arm in arm, until the shadow of The Euterpe comes into view.

“Will you come see me again?” she asks.

“Of course.”

“Good night, dear.”

She walks toward the Theatre. For a moment, the facade is in perfect repair, the marquee alive with red neon and white chaser lights— but then it’s just dark and dilapidated again, with the doors chained shut and Esmeralda nowhere in sight.

“So, it worked!” says Sam over my phone, waking me with a call at midnight.

“What worked?” I ask, still half dreaming.

“They saw her. She interacted. She’s real. We can use her.”

“Use her how?”

“Well, you know,” says Sam, somewhat guiltily. “She can promote our cause. We can take her to the town council, the county executives. Bring her to meetings with investors. Have her give a TED talk to the PTA. Whatever. She can be the face of Save The Euterpe.”

“That’s great,” I say.

“It’s all happening,” says Sam. “I can feel it.”

The next day, I close up the shop at three o’clock on the dot. On a whim, I stop at a bakery en route to the Theatre.

I use my key for the side door, and the lobby is dark save for dusty shafts of afternoon sun. Sam’s not in his makeshift office, so it’s just me in the abandoned space. I go down under the stage and through the portal. I feel for the switch and flick it on.

“Esmeralda?”

She comes out from behind a shelf, holding a long, sequined gown on a hanger she settles neatly into a rack.

“Right here, dear. How are you?”

I want to ask so many things. Are you real? Are you alive? Where have you been all these years? My father… he died years ago. Is it possible I can see him again? Instead, I just hold out the box from the bakery.

“I brought some tea and almond cookies.”

“Lovely!” says Esmerlda. “I’ll get a table and chairs.”

Every day for the rest of the week, this becomes the ritual I live for. I close up the shop after lunch and make my way to the nether-stage. There is Esmeralda— always present, never changing. She shows me photos albums and pulls framed stills to decorate the defunct concession stand. She tells the story of a century from the view of a theater seat. The traveling acts. The Orpheum circuit. The silents. The talkies. Black-and-white. Color. Plays, musicals, operas, concerts. Shows and lectures. Rallies and protests. This little town, standing still decade after decade, yet the whole world has passed through.


“People are sick of binging scripted reality shows and paying premium-plus streaming fees. There’s a hunger for live entertainment, a whole generation for whom it’s brand new. It’s 1999 and theater is the Internet. We’re at ground zero for this.”

Saturday we make signs and posters and flyers. Even the other group members get involved, passing out invites along Main Street, sweeping and vacuuming the lobby and aisles— one even rents a helium tank and popcorn cart. At night, we have a little candlelight vigil on the stage itself, toasting with cheap champagne and everyone telling stories about why they love theater and concerts and movies and art... and for the first time in months, I remember that I actually do like these people. Like the blind men and the elephant, we’re all reaching out for the same thing, each holding on to a different part. I think of Esmeralda, somewhere below our feet, in whatever paradise or purgatory she occupies. I think of inviting her up. But, I don't. I want to keep to her myself.

At last, Sunday comes.

And nobody comes.

Oh, a few townies wander in. They ask if the place is going to re-open. Some seem unaware it was even closed. They walk into the lobby and the theater and, to a one, they say it’s fantastic and it should be running again and we’re doing such a great job and blah-blah-blah. They drop twenty-bucks in a donation jar, take some balloons for their kids, and leave.

Not a single developer/investor/agent/manager shows up. Not even from the bank across the street that’s had a Save the Euterpe! poster in the window for months. It’s a dour afternoon. Sam rolls his eyes and makes wisecracks, but I can hear the bitterness underneath. The group members eat leftover popcorn and complain. The high point of the day comes when one starts sucking helium and cursing the town like a chipmunk with a dockworker's profanity. We laugh. It passes. We sigh. We close up an hour early. A few go out for drinks. Sam doesn’t even want to join them. That’s how bad it is.

The next day, I'm at the shop when Sam calls.

“A friend of mine on the zoning board just told me the county has a buyer lined up,” he says.

“What! When?”

“Six months ago. The place went on auction right after the election.”

“Then why did they give us permission to show it?”

“Apparently, we generated enough public interest to convince them to keep it quiet. Nobody wants the spectacle of soccer moms lying in front of bulldozers.”

“Isn’t there anything we can do? Hire a lawyer or something?”

“That’s like putting out fire with gasoline-soaked money. No, they have the right to sell the property. No matter what we do, it will come down to that.”

“What are they going to build?” I ask.

“My friend says it’s likely either a boutique hotel or a chain drugstore. She said they’re discussing requiring the new property to have a quote-unquote theater component. In a hotel, I believe that’s called the lounge. I don’t know what the fuck you call it in a Walgreen’s.”

I can't help but ask. “What about Esmeralda? We have to get her out.”

Sam is quiet. Quiet for longer than I like. “I don't think she'll come.”

“What do you know about it!” I yell. “You never cared about her! You only wanted to use her! You don't even... you don’t....”

Something in me cracks and I bawl over the line, sobbing into my phone, snot dripping on the screen.

“Oh, Sam…” I say, desperate.

“I know. I'm sorry. I’ll come with you. We’ll talk to her. We’ll explain it together.”

 “No,” I say, starting to recover. “No, I’ll do it. Let me do it, please.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

"OK. Call me if you need me, alright?"

"I will. Thank you, Sam."

"Thank you. For everything you did. It was a good effort."

“I'm sorry it won't come through for you.”

“Par for course,” he says. “Don’t worry about me. Go take care of our impossible friend.”

God dammit. I’m crying again.

“Oh no! No, no, dear! There’s nothing to be sad about! I've had so much, more than I ever dreamed possible. And you coming to sit with me and share it. That's everything, don't you understand?"

"I didn't do anything," I protest.

“You put your heart into loving something, uncertain what would happen,” she says. “That takes courage. It doesn’t have to be big or dramatic. It’s the little things that matter most. Do you know the greatest thing I've ever done in my life?”

 I shake my head.

“They were showing The Wizard of Oz and I saw this little boy standing alone in the lobby. He said the witch scared him and he didn't want to see it anymore. I asked if he would sit with me in the balcony and just watch the funny parts— we would leave if he got scared again. He watched the whole movie. Afterward, in the lobby, he saw his family. They didn’t even realize he’d left. He ran to them, jumping up and down, saying how much he loved it. I gave that to him.”

Esmeralda reaches out, takes my hands in hers.

“I’ve had my moments, and they were wonderful,” she says. “Your time is now, out there in the world as it is, not hiding in a cellar with me. The past is a fine place to visit. More people should, more often. But it’s no place to live. Go, Lisa. Go and have your moments.”

We linger for a while, talk a little more, and then I go.

On the day they bulldoze the Euterpe, I don’t look. A few weeks later, I pass by the construction site and see the new foundation being dug. No one discovered any underground mystery room. It was never there. It will always be there.

I sit in the park in the middle of town. Young mothers push baby strollers. Children climb over a Civil War cannon like a jungle gym. An old man reads yesterday’s newspaper. Esmeralda is on the bench beside me.

“How are you, dear?” she asks.

“Sad,” I say. “Things are always leaving my life. So much that was important to me, so much of what I once was, is just gone.”

“Loss is real, and it’s alright to mourn. Nostalgia is a bittersweet tonic, and it can help sometimes, but don’t drown yourself in it. What do you have now that’s important to you?”

I think for a moment.

“Sometimes, when I assemble a bouquet, I'll stop and picture where it’s going. Graduation, anniversary, wedding, or funeral… it doesn’t matter. I just imagine it, adding a touch of beauty in the background that everyone can feel, even if they don’t notice. I always try to make each arrangement the best that I can, my small contribution to the lives of people I’ll never meet.”

Esmeralda reaches out and trails her fingers over crocus blossoms in a planter next to the bench. “Flowers are beautiful,” she says. “Even more so because we know they don’t last forever.”

Memories come to me, things I’ve never told anyone before. I tell Esmeralda.

“When I was a teenager, my father was diagnosed with cancer. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to say to him. I couldn’t even look at him, afraid I might see him changed, afraid I’d have to face that he would never be the same. One day, I was sitting with him, watching something stupid on TV like Smokey and the Bandit... and he laughed. He laughed like he always had and a shadow lifted. He lived for ten more years. When he finally went, I was as ready as one can be for such a thing.”

Esmeralda rubs my shoulder.

“Once, at a time when my mother and I were barely speaking, I bought us tickets to see Les Misérables. At the height of all its bombastic sentimentality, she reached over and took my hand. We held hands for the rest of the show and had a long conversation at a coffee shop after.”

Esmeralda takes my hand.

“In college, still deep in the throes of adolescent confusion, I went to a comedy show in the student union. There was a particularly good joke and I laughed. At the next table, I saw a girl I knew from class laughing too. She pushed her hair away from her eyes and looked at me— and with the clarity of a bell I knew for the first time I was in love.”

The afternoon light makes the trees glow, new leaves just starting to peek from the tip of every golden branch.

“I wish I could share all these things, these little things, that made me what I am. But I don’t know how. I can’t imagine anyone would understand how precious they are to me. But there is a room —a big, dark room— where all that uncertainty, all that misunderstanding, just drops away. I want to sit next to you in that big, dark room. I want to poke you with my elbow, point to something on screen or on stage and say: Look at that! Isn't that wonderful! And, in that moment, we would feel the same thing. The same memory becomes part of who we both are. I honestly believe if we can remember to do that now and then… somehow everything will be OK.”

“I’ll sit next to you, dear,” says Esmeralda. “I’ll be beside you in that big, dark room anytime you want. Just be sure you leave room for others to sit with you as well.”

“I will,” I say. “I promise.”

I look over.

Esmeralda isn’t there.

She will always be there.