Suddenly my world was more alive than ever before…
It all began when I turned nine. My mother took me to see my
first play, "The Nutcracker," and even though I still find it to be one of the
most tedious few hours of my life, she began a tradition for us that have become
the days I treasure most.
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| At dinner before Jersey Boys |
Each year we dress up, stuff our faces with Atlanta’s fine
dining, and wun (my mother’s term of an gleeful half-walk, half-run) hand-in-hand
over to The Fox. She has no idea how much I enjoy these times with her, but I’m
certain it’s the only thing that got us through my hard-headed, argumentative
teenage years. If nothing else, it’s probably the only few hours we can spend
together without arguing and trading involuntary eye-rolls. I’m convinced The
Fox holds magical powers in its faux twinkling stars above, because our incompatible
brains suddenly, yet seamlessly, become one.
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Tickets from the best costume display
I've ever seen! |
Our roars of laughter were perfectly in sync at Robin Williams,
our doe-eyes were the exact same in measurement at "The Lion King," she handed me
her used tissue without a single glance in my direction during "The Color
Purple," we gasped simultaneously when the phantom disappeared, we sang,
horribly off-key, to the random verses of “it’s a hard-knocked life” in tandem,
and we both found ourselves physically unable to remove our hineys from the
edge of our seats during "Wicked."
These moments with my mother not only bring us closer but also
allow me to submerge into the dramatic part of my brain, begging for any form
of theatrics that our regimented daily lives refuse to allow. We become a part
of the performances. If she takes the stage, than I’m her spotlight with zero
stage direction necessary. If I’m hitting a high note, she’s the accompanying
orchestra without a conductor.
When I’m at the theatre magic becomes real, beauty holds a new
meaning and possibilities seem endless. Simply stated, there’s no one else I’d
rather share the stage with.
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