The Play

PROSE POETRY

by Paul Dickey

Mother is writing a new play. It is called “Dying.” I have argued with her for many years not to write such emotionally charged tripe. But I was told not to worry. The actors whom we thought were all rather theatrical told us it could take five years or more to write all the drafts that a new play requires. She has written many good plays before. Some in no time. One was named “Raising a Son” in which I must say I played a bit of a part myself and I like to think I didn’t do so badly in the role. Some good folks even said so. Other plays no doubt will be found in her old cedar chest that Dad made in his high school woodworking class. None of these ever were performed on stage, of course, although many times we were within mere minutes of a full-dress production. Now we will have to find relatives to take them off her hands along with all the whatnots, the vacation souvenir teaspoons, and old pots and pans. Throughout her long and engaging dramatic career, her performed plays at different times had been called fiction, creative nonfiction, or even science fiction. Or imaginative realism, although not one of her most ardent critics or admirers suggest that any of these genres were any more real than other types of genres she might have worked on secretly during all those years, while failing to be identified by even those of us who loved her the most.