Ophelia

OPHELIA

(from my play Gertrude’s Garden)

One.

I’m supposed to die today. It’s a thing. I wake up, read some poetry or something, we churn butter, we do laundry, we smell the flowers, we have tea. Every day at 5pm, I go to the river and I fall in. Every afternoon I die and every morning I wake up again. Usually Gertrude picks me up from the river bank, it’s quite inconvenient, really. Not an ideal way to spend the day. Quite dreadful actually, once you think about it.

Two.

Gertrude doesn’t like me. I mean, she loves me, but she doesn’t like me, not really, anyway. I don’t like her either, I don’t think I do, at least. What does it mean to like someone? I thought I liked him and he said I was a rock. I think I said that already?

Three.

Freckles wrote a list. She said we needed reasons to stay alive. She told me not to go to the river. You should’ve seen her the next morning, probably thought I was a ghost, bless her little cotton socks. That girl is too pure. Was to pure. I think? What time is it anyway?

Four.

I think I had four sisters? No. That wasn’t me. Must’ve been someone else. I’m supposed to die today.

Five.

There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember. And there is pansies, that’s for thoughts. . . . There’s fennel for you, and columbines. There’s rue for you, and here’s some for me; we may call it herb of grace o’Sundays. You must wear your rue with a difference. There’s a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died. They say he made a good end.

Six.

They said I killed myself. I didn’t. The river took me and then it gave me back. I don’t think I can die. Not permanently, at least. Gertrude wouldn’t have that. The poet laid out milk and cookies for her kids and put wet towels around the kitchen door so they’d be safe? Right before she turned on the oven and well… you know? I cried when I read that.

Seven.

We used to have birds. Swallows and nightingales. They sang and woke us up and we wished they’d shut up. And then they left. The men left too. Her sons. They brought us and then left. We belong to her now.

Eight.

I’m supposed to die today. But I don’t think I want to.

Nine.

I’m supposed to die today. I’m supposed to die.