When the Universe Speaks

Mona Burroughs

  

  An unfinished project is like a dangling participle or an unwanted shadow. It's a small stone trapped in your shoe. 

  Rarely do I leave one unfinished.

  But as I felt compelled to step away from speaking at our historic Burroughs Home, there seemed little reason to finish a 1-woman show where I play a true Burrough's maid from the twenties, Mary Epsey.

  Which, btw, I began before becoming aware of The Help.

  Yet, I've finished most of the research.

  But it wouldn't make sense to an audience if you weren't actually at the Burrough's.

  Yet it's 3/4 written!

  But, I'm not a woman of color!

  Technically I poetically licensed this last point, but you see my dilemma. 

  In a twist of fate, the last few days have found me considering a return to the Burroughs Home. This could also mean a return to Mary Epsey. Fate loves it's curve balls.

  Oh what to do, what to do! If only the universe would send an omen as I bike down Estero Boulevard.

  I'll pause while you read a portion of the script in order to understand where I'm heading here....

...Miss Mona and Miss Faye are good friends, but I wouldn’t be calling em two peas in a pod. Miss Mona’s always the life of the party. While Miss Faye? Well, she’s more quiet like. But between you and me? Those are some still waters runnin deep in Miss Faye, you mark my words.
            (sees an easel sitting with a partially finished canvas sitting on it)
   What is Miss Mona workin on now?
            (puts down the tea pot and holds out her thumb to eyeball the painting, studying it for a moment before turning back to the house)
   I don’t know what that does but I see Miss Mona doin it all the time. She’s a good a painter, don’tcha think?  I especially like this one.
            (sees the table near the easel with an artist palette, open paint tubes, etc.)
   Don’t know what all this is doin here. She usually sets herself up down by the river. She likes paintin by her daddy while he’s fishin. Will ya look at this?
            (begins closing paint tubes)
   Good Lord, I never seen a young woman so messy. You should see her room – it is not a calm before the storm, I don’t mind telling ya. It is a full blown hurricane a barrelin on through...

  So. Here I am riding my bike down the beach, a angstin and a wishin for an omen, when I see an artist's palette, complete with wet paint, lying on the grass. 

  If I'm lyin, I'm dyin!

  My mouth falls open. But as it's my fate to resist fate, I prop the palette on a sign in case it's owner returns for it. 

  But an hour later, it's still there as I ride back by.

  FINE! I don't need to be bopped on the head!

  For your reading pleasure, here's a bit more of the script...


   ...What! Now hold on Miss Mona!
             (hands teapot to a guest)
   Take this for me now would ya, Ma’am? Go on and pour yourself a cup if ya like.
             (to Miss Mona with her hands on her hips)
   You want me to tell your Mama you’re not at her garden club meetin cause you’re dancin at the Royal Palm? Again?
              (pauses)
   Why thank you, Miss Mona. The good Lord did give me good ears, but I’m not convinced bearing unhappy news to your mama is gonna enhance her afternoon.
               (to the house)
   Or mine... 

  I've missed ya Mary. Thanks for your patience.