"When I close my eyes to reminisce about my childhood, two images instantly begin to glow in the darkness of that inner-cranial theatre: an early-Elvis photograph and a slender, yellow can of lemon-scented furniture polish. I hear an actual buzzing in my head as these images flicker into life and begin to glow like neon. Such sounds ridiculous, but it is true. Soon the stage is bathed in yellow light - a stage much like that of the elementary school where I spent eight years. Pecan stained wood, the sides and back covered with heavy, crushed dark-red velvet, with the same on pull cords to open and close the stage to the audience.
The photo and spray can dance across the stage of my recollection ... curtsy and bow to one another, enjoy a few titillating spins, and some up-close and very personal waltzing. The black and white photo, with its shiny surface, wraps itself around the smooth, yellow can, which in turn arches itself into the photo. They render themselves to be like those animated intermission shorts at the movie theatre, if not for the hush of their performance and their intense and private passion. They stand in that clutch for some time, barely swaying from side to side, lost in their reverie of contact. But then they bound about to different areas of the stage, the photograph wildly spinning, then fluttering to the stage floor and contorting in a way to crawl to the edge of the scene, eventually nestling into a fold of the velvet curtains, its gloss fading to a dulled matte. The spray can continues to move about, its choreography at times erratic, at times steady, and with a frequent twist as if looking longingly toward the now-still photo. It eventually stands still on the opposite side of the stage, and the curtains close.
It is the dance of my parents. It is the dance I have often associated with love. It is the stage on which I put myself while deciding if I am ready to open the curtains to whatever moment, day, relationship, decision, or life that is thrust at me. The curtains open and I am caught there onstage under the paralyzing glare of a spotlight - unable to look out through the distance to the audience, and too frightened to turn around and see what is backstage."
Copyright by Leandra J Sullivan
"Crushed Red Velvet"
