Mother's New Play


Paul Dickey, Poetry

Mother is writing a new play. It is called “Dying.” I have argued
with her for many years not to write such emotionally charged
tripe. But I was told not to worry. The doctors whom we
thought were all rather theatrical too told us it could take five
years or more to write all the drafts that a new play requires.
But she has written good plays before. Some in no time. One
was named “Raising a Son” in which I must say I played a
bit of a part myself and I like to think I didn’t do so badly in
the role. Some good folks even said so. Other plays will no
doubt be found in her old cedar chest that Dad had made in
his high school woodworking class. None of these ever got
performed on stage, of course, although many times we were
within mere minutes of a full-dress production. Now we
will have to find relatives to take them off her hands with all
the whatnots, vacation souvenir tea-spoons, and old pots and
pans. Throughout her long and engaging dramatic career, her
performed plays at different times have been called fiction,
creative non-fiction, or even science-fiction. Or imaginative
realism, although not one of her most ardent critics or
admirers will suggest that any of these genres were any more
real than other types of genres she might have worked on
secretly during her artistic career but failed to be identified by
even those of us who loved her the most.