To you, her only apparent acquaintances, or mayhap friends, I am taking time out from work to admit to, ....to her murder.
For that is what it was. Myself and my family.
The person of whom I speak was someone that we all shunned and treated like a vile
freak and a disgusting outcast for most of our lives.
That person, I now realize, was my aunt, although that fact was hidden from me throughout her life.
Her body was found many days after her passing.
It fell to me, the adult nephew to examine the debris of her passing.
A few shabby sticks of furniture, and musty clothing.
I found a book. The cover battered and worn. Her journal.
Out of curiosity, I flip the pages.
I see the ongoing struggle, through many years.
We, her family, ridiculed and rejected her, and heaped abuse upon her.
Unfulfilled hopes and desires.
And always, alone.
She lived alone and died, alone.

I closed the journal as my tears stain the cover and pages.
Now, only I know of her love of music, art, and dance.
And only I know that our hatred and neglect killed her as surely as a sharp blade
or virulent toxin.

I will keep her journal and attempt to honor her in death, even as I did not in life.
Some day, I will teach my children of love and that the true person is revealed in their heart and soul.
I will tell them of the story of their Great Aunt Alexander.

_______________________________________________________________________
The Mercury Theatre on the Air
New York, N.Y.
G.O. Welles, Director

Now, I am old.
The strange friendless boy whom no one liked or really knew, is now even stranger.
I sit here, alone, in my dark lonely shabby room and look at the dingy walls,
the yellowing tattered drapes, and worn frayed carpeting and see that it reflects myself.
The bright colors and cheerful hopes of youth are stained and faded.
It comes to me that I have daydreamed my life away.
I did not share of myself and now there is nothing left but an empty husk.

I think, others must have had many the same and different such hopes and dreams..
But then, I thought: they preserved them through love and effort and care.
They reached out and did not hide, nor fear rejection, but were true to who and
what they were,
So their dreams flourished and enriched them and mayhap those that came after.
And they are not alone and have those that cherish them.
Those that will mourn their passing and honor their memory.

................................................................................................................................................

Dried twisted leaves flutter in the breeze as they drift past.
The cheap stone already wearing smooth at the head of the neglected grave.
Others around have flowers and such to mark the visits of loved ones,
but none are, nor will be, here.
And now, there is none to ever know that the strange friendless boy who lies here,
was really a girl.