When the Soul Goes

by Heather Raffo

The stage sits empty.  Morning sunrise floods through the windows and doorway.  Two paintings hang on the otherwise bare walls, one of Jesus, the other of Mother Mary.  The sunlight grows then seems to fall upon the paintings.  We hear voices as if they inhabit the space, as if they live there.  And they do, the voices are of a mother and her son.

Son: 

Mom?  Are you there?

Mom:

I’m here.  (She listens.)  What do you want?

Son: 

To know you’re there. I can’t see you. 

Mom: 

What can you see?

Son: 

Nothing, emptiness, dust.

A woman enters with a broom.  She takes in the room.  Then begins to sweep.

Son: 

Do you think she knows we’re here?

Mom: 

She sees the dust, doesn’t she?

The woman looks out of the small window.

Son: 

That’s where he left the room. I saw his soul fly out.

Mom: 

I saw it too.

The woman suddenly cries. Hard. Then stops herself.  If there were drapes, she would close them.  She goes back to sweeping.  Makes the sign of the cross beneath the painting of Jesus.  She genuinely cleans.  She gets in the corners.

Son: 

He was in the prime of his life.

Mom: 

Losing a son at any age is unbearable.

The woman looks out the window again.

Son: 

Were you proud of me?

Mom: 

Yes.  Why are you asking?  Of course, I was.  Aren’t we passed that now?

Son: 

Were you?

Mom: 

Of course, I was proud.  In the end, you were right.  And I knew then you were right. But that doesn’t make it less painful. 

Son:

Still?

Mom: 

Yes.  Loss, grief, watching you suffer.  And the endless capitalization.  If I’d known then -

Son: 

Was it worth it?

The woman takes the painting of Jesus off the wall, gently pounds the canvas. Dust comes flying out.  On the back of the canvas is a price tag, $4.99.  She scrapes it off. 

Mom: 

He was her only son. 

Son:

She carries his badge in her pocket.  She was proud.

Mom:

Her son, and now her house.   

The woman hears something outside, begins to sweep faster. 

Son:

Can you see outside the window? 

Mom: 

A bit. I hear the birds.  I’m tired of seeing.  I’d much rather listen anyway.

The woman begins to pray: 

Woman: 

Dios te salve, María, Llena eres de gracia, El Señor es contigo, Bendita tú eres entre todas las mujeres, Y bendito es el fruto de tu vientre, Jesús - 

Three people stand in the doorway.  One man wears a suit, the other a preppy golf shirt, the very pregnant wife is in a floral maxi dress.

The woman looks up at them, it’s a long moment.  They all just watch each other.  Then the woman finishes sweeping the last corner.  

Husband:

Oh wow. Okay. 

Wife: 

How nice they sent a cleaning lady. 

The three people enter the house as if they own the place.

The woman puts her broom against the wall, looks across the room for the last time.  

She takes the painting of the Blessed Mother off the wall and walks out.

Son: 

Mom?  Mom?!

The man in the suit feels the clean tile beneath his feet.  

Agent: 

It’s pretty good for sight-unseen really. The floor’s in good shape.  You still thinking a gut renovation?

Husband:

We just want the land.  

Wife: 

We’re gonna start from scratch. 

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