A Slight Intermission

The smell of Vi-O-Let Life Savers, and twenty different types of fresh cut flowers, two days in need of watering. An overwhelming bouquet of creatures caught somewhere in a post-life state of beautiful yet dead. A frozen limbo of wilted, and soon to be rotting...I nearly sneeze. Yet I enjoy the smell of my Grandmother's favorite candy. I can almost see the pews filled with old ladies, all holding their white purses, eating Life Savers and Butterscotch, and other ribbon and mint candies.

Cinnamon. I smile at the scent of Christmas, but Harpo is too busy undressing. There, at the birth of the pews, Harpo stands on the floor of Mahogany, shaking his wet hat at me.

Chico had used his jacket as an umbrella; running about like a bat whose wings had turned backwards and were resting upon his head. Poor Harpo, to keep dry, had depended upon his nice hat, and now it's soaked. Ruined.

But Harpo keeps shaking it -- to be playful: in my direction -- and then inspecting it, as if by magic, any moment now, it will not only be desiccated, but restored to a state of brand new. And neither of us will be surprised!

I'm getting my own performance. HARPO MARX AND HIS NEW OLD HAT TRICK.

And despite wanting to escape this well-lit entranceway of flickering candles teasing green stained-glass, I enjoy the sight of him...

He looks like a dark-haired Cherub. All pink-cheeked and wide-eyed. Cupid, before time remade him. Not a fat-faced infant, but a fit, lean man. A Peter Pan who has escaped Never Land because he learned he could make love to Wendy.

I'm shivering. My once wet, once dry, and now wet again bedsheet dress is clinging tight to my body, and I might as well be back in the sanitarium, strapped to a bed, because we're not moving.

I grab the hat from Harpo and toss it down the aisle, amongst the invisible congregation.

An unseen funeral.

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