Bleeding Heart

Puppet

(Act 1)

Cold is the day his mother's body lays to rest within the quiet earth,

The clouds' tears drenching the stoic, lifeless gray grave.

The young son watches painfully

Standing in silent mourning before her new resting place

The last to remain behind

As people depart the grave site with a "Farewell."

Unable to leave mother's side he watches on, already missing her warm smile.

At his grandparents' house—he refuses to call it home—he is left

Wreathed in solitude of the heart.

The lonely void in his spirit grows, not receding with time.

He sits on the empty bed of an old room that had once been mother's

Her childhood room.

The boy stares blankly at nothing,

The room is cold, empty and dusty without her; cobwebs line the ceiling.

"Emotions, I hate them," the young boy murmurs,

Just as grandma opens the door softly.

"I'm going across to the workshop, if ye'd like to come with me?"

Her voice asks kindly. Giving a silent nod to her, he follows

Though his eyes remain hollow and lifeless as wood.

The workshop is a large barn on the side of the house, closed for the evening,

Inside, the boy marvels.

Before him stand life-size "people" made of hardened wax, life-like puppets

The work of his grandparents' lifelong business and creative skill for museums

Art and such. The manikins so real he feels they may come to life any moment

Open glassy eyes and walk.

"Come to life...mother..." a lonely thought forms inside him

And with it resurfacing memories.

Memories that continue swirling in the night through his head as he sleeps,

A moonlit window casting shadows across his dreams.

In the mist of his subconscious, a sudden and hopeful idea begins to form

Like a seed taking root in his mind and blossoming forth into the answer...

Secretly, and careful as the most silent mouse, at midnight

Inside the workshop, he begins.

Wax limbs attach, a manikin head is rotated on

The figure of a woman is forming.

Long auburn hair, pearly glass blue eyes,

Blushing pink cheeks, a face is brought to life.

Painting detail by loving detail, shaping and remolding

Every speck to perfection,

Weeks of work in the cool creaking of the nights passes by.

Until finally, at long last...

The form, the image of her from his memory,

That pretty smile of his mother beaming, returns!