We closed on Sunday. 
The set has been broken down, the costumes are in bags in my car awaiting a wash.
The leftover programs are stashed in a file.
I relaxed, I celebrated, I glowed, I basked in the finale of two years of hard work.
And then I crashed.
On Tuesday night.
Dissemination takes time.
So although the goop is out of my hair and the last of the mascara has been wiped away, I left on the nail polish. Call me superstitious, but I can’t take it off yet. Not yet.
So I’ve left it on. For now.
To remind me of the day I found out I’d be wearing black polish and how much I disliked the idea, but kept my trap shut, painted it on anyways, and discovered I liked it quite well.
To remind me of the smell of the basement in Lowell which was sweetly relieved by the scent of Gertrude’s own shiny polish application.
To remind me of Claudius’ elegantly and perfectly shaped feminine nails being coated quickly and diligently before each show, or so it seemed to me.
To remind me of the look on Gertrude’s face behind my hand as I held up a tiny portrait. And the smell of Ophelia’s hair as I tried to carefully swung her around and shout at the top of her head, my nails flickering at me as they encircled her slender arms.
To remind me of those damn curtains which never landed right in fight call, but always placed themselves perfectly in performance regardless of how I grabbed them.
To remind me that the end of a project is really just the beginning of another.
Because dissemination takes time. And I’m not quite sure I’m ready to let go.
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