The actress stood two feet in front of me. She was feeding her chickens in the yard, lifting her invisible apron to hold grain that doesn’t exist. She scattered imaginary pellets along her path between viewers. This was her morning chore, every morning, just after the breakfast dishes were done. I could smell the condensation in the early morning air. I could feel the grass strafe against my ankles. She chattered to this side and then to that side, clucking to the little mothers in the yard, swinging her arm against a woman in a cashmere sweater. And then she stopped suddenly, looking down. Her eyes softened and her voice mellowed. “You don’t belong to me. What are you doing here?” She leaned down towards a lady’s purse and cooed a little something unintelligible. Warm, loving words.
I’ve been in that garden and seen those chickens and gathered those eggs. I’ve encouraged the hens to lay, and scolded the dog for harassing them.
I started to cry. I couldn’t help it any more than I can help crying in front of the Rembrandt self-portrait at the Frick. Crying about a fowl that isn’t there. Crying about a man leaving mark of himself.
Crying about what’s alive and what isn’t.
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