The Script

I watch you watch me,
As I open the door slowly,
Carefully,
As if drawing open the curtain
On the first act
Of this new chapter of your life.
Your eyes drift from my face
To the bright red file I hold
Clutched tightly in my hand.
Almost bursting at the seams,
The script, as it were…
A running commentary on your life.

It is a script you help write
But never actually read.
All you see is the cardboard cover…
The contents are for my eyes only.
Yet I read the words out to you
At each and every visit.

But today is different
Something unexpected in the plot…
A twist, a turn,
Which occurred silently
Deep within you.
You provided the material
But it was an inspiration no one wanted…
Sometimes the script
Takes on a life of its own.

I, myself, do not want to play this part…
This is a monologue I don't want to read
But it is part of the performance.
After all, there have been happy monologues
Soliloquies of joy
Wherein you sat and beamed
Proud of your accomplishments
And the script was punctuated
By the footnotes of your life:
Babies, milestones, triumph over pain,
Personal goals realized.

I close the door behind me
The office clock beats loudly in the silence
Like a drum roll preceding my opening words
Should I set the stage
Or jump to the climax?
You shift uncomfortably in your chair
This is not the performance you bargained for…

But the script is by no means finalized
There is always room for revisions
Your epilogue is yet to be written.
We shall complete it together
And hope for better inspirations
And more positive turns of plot.
As we navigate the story of your life.