Puppet

There is silence; the silence that comes before dawn and after dusk,
the silence of cellars in remote houses and of mountain meadows.

For one final time, the forgotten puppeteer hovers over his miniature
stage, examining with pride the creation that has been his life.
Sat upon a faded and tattered chair, in diminutive detail, is his prop,
the puppet, a figure of an elderly man as weary and aged as himself.
His puppet strings, though cared for, are yellowed with age. The wooden
frame, despite careful handling, is brittle and worn. A lifetime of use
must take its toll.
Sadness pervades his thoughts as he recalls the many times they have
performed. Once, this puppet had danced at his command; limbs, fingers,
toes, head and body, each moving faultlessly in rhythm with the
practised twist and deft twirl of his fingers. It was his life; his
reason for being. The puppet and he; each worthless apart yet priceless
together.
When the puppeteer sleeps, so must his puppet. Awake, though, and his
touch breathes life into it, and they are as one. Yet, with every skill
perfected, every movement practised ad infinitum, there is no longer a
reason to perform, save this one last time.

Cautiously, he approaches the puppet, his frail hands closing around
the wooden frame. He takes great care, aware that his mind is no longer
sharp, aware that this moment must be right.
He begins the subtle, mysterious hand movements, casting complex
incantations that work the strings, transferring his skilful touch from
fingertip to puppet. His beloved figure comes gently alive in his
hands, leaving a state of suspended animation to blink eyes open, yawn
and stretch.

Where once an audience might have sat incredulous, today there is none,
except for the puppet dog that watches the puppet man with infinite
patience. His soulful canine eyes gaze ever-attentively at the frail
figure, oblivious to strings.

They share their existence: a tired old man and his little dog, Cassie,
living alone in their quiet, comfortable home.

The old man returns to the world, his eyes blinking a thousand dreams
away. It is nice in the comfortable chair. "Hello, boy," he says,
knowing through half-sleep that the dog waits patiently at his feet for
his waking moment.

Cassie hears the familiar call, the kindly voice, and remembers a time
when it was brighter, when his master would walk him briskly along the
footpaths and watch as he chased rabbits in the meadow. He cannot
explain, but knows still, a feeling of sadness. Every day, the old man
spends longer in the chair, off and dreaming in that other world.

"Cm'ere, Cassie."

The dog leans his head to listen, then lopes forward and hops, landing
on the old man's lap to curl up against his side.
Affectionate hands groom his coat, hands that are trusted and have
soothed him a thousand times. Familiar hands that have altered, a
little each day. Hands frail where once they were quick. Brittle
fingers that open slowly as a rusted hinge. The secret threads still
lifting and lowering, but now with tired and hesitant motions.

With a gentle manoeuvring of strings, the old man turns to look at the
table where a photo stands of Marie, his wife of sixty years and now
two years gone. He sighs, remembering times that exist only in his
memories. Endless adventures, children born and grown, contentment and
joy. A priceless collection that will be forever hidden in a darkened
room.

Tired, ancient eyes blink a tear away. Heavy, aged lungs heave a sigh
of air.

"You're a good friend, Cassie, but you shouldn't be here with me. You
should be with someone who can look after you, someone who can walk you
in the park."
He smiles as the dog looks at him curiously, listening intently to the
words. Perhaps you know, the old man considers to himself. Perhaps you
understand what I'm telling you.

Practised fingers work the threads once more, adjusting the old man's
head so he may look out onto his garden. It pleases him. The neat and
healthy lawn that he once proudly tended; now, in turn, tended by his
son. The simple, tidy rows of geraniums and pansies, an old rose bush
in the corner providing a warm display.
He sees that the sun is bright today. It draws and enhances petal
colours and the lawn's verdant green, casting its light on memories of
days spent digging. Back-breaking work in a garden that was once the
neighbours' envy. The memory causes his thin lips to form a smile, even
now when he can do no more than watch, and remember.

"I'm too tired for all that now, Cassie. Too tired even to look after
you," he whispers, and his eyes close once more. "Perhaps I'll rest
here a while longer."

The little dog peers at him from his curled-up snugness and whines a
soft protest. The old man breathes heavy, then ever lighter, his
calming caresses quietening the dog until they sleep together.

It is time to take a bow and retreat behind the velvet curtain, to be
forever enveloped in its heaviness and its darkness. Tonight, there
will be no encore.

The old puppeteer moves his fingers in an accomplished finale, relaxing
and releasing the strings, laying puppet hand on puppet lap, resting
head against chair, lifting and lowering the chest for one, final
breath.
Delicately, he places the frame in its place, taking care not to move
the figure from rest. Then he, too, closes his eyes and waits.

To those who have attended over the years, thank you for coming. Many
of you I haven't seen for a long time; but perhaps, now, I shall see
you all again.