Last night was the closing night of "Les Mis" at the Academy Playhouse. Thus, I felt I had finally earned the right to sign my name in the backstage staircase, where decades of performers had signed their names along with, perhaps, some witty line or inside joke from a show they were in.
It took me awhile to find an empty space to write. I didn't want to write over anyone else's signature, and I wanted to sign my name somewhere in the middle of the staircase. After all, that was always where my eyes were drawn to when I ascended the stairs every night for "At the End of the Day" and later on for the "Epilogue."
Along with my name, I felt inclined to write a quote from the show. (With a show as long as "Les Mis," there is an overwhelming number of options.) I thought about what I wanted to leave behind. I was reminded of the messages I always see written in the sand, of how what people choose to write reflects something about them.
I finally decided on this:
"There is a life about to start when tomorrow comes." It seemed apropos for a time when we cast and crew members were all melancholy about the end of the show. "It isn't really goodbye," I thought, as we all sang the last notes of the "Epilogue." "We will go on to other performances and hopefully be able to watch each other or even work with each other again."
So as tempting as it was last night to look back as the lyrics and choreography trailed behind me, I knew I just had to keep rolling. Before every show, our director talked about the snowball effect of "Les Mis," and how every song, every show just had to keep building upon the last. And how we had to let it. So I rolled with it. Through every song. Through every show. And even after the final curtain call last night, that ball kept rolling–with me following–into tomorrow, tomorrow, and beyond.
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