diary / by Edward Mullany


I went to a play with a friend who told me, after we’d arrived at the theater and had found our seats, but before the lights had dimmed or any actors had appeared, so that everyone was murmuring, and rustling their programs, and we could see, when we looked at the stage, the furnishings and props, and the painted interiors, which suggested the silence of a room that is about to come alive with a cast of persons whose conflicts will be revealed in all their drama and tedium, that she sometimes felt like a character in her own play, and that everyone with whom she interacted, myself included, wherever she happened to be, were inhabiting roles that had been provided for them, though none of us knew this, and even she herself sometimes forgot, though when I asked her, in jest, who could’ve written such a play, she laughed and said no one, and then added, as the lights went down, and a hush fell over the audience, so that her voice, even as a whisper, seemed to carry, and anyone around us might have heard her, though no one but me could’ve understood what she was referring to, as they hadn’t caught the rest of our conversation, that probably God had.