A cathedral in the wilderness. Faint smells of holy oils and incense. Old, wooden pews. A lonely choir loft at night. Alto - young but tired - sits casually in her vocal section. ALTO: Whenever I hear a song from childhood, I feel myself hurtled through time and space to this choir loft.
A VOICE: That doesn’t sound surprising.
ALTO: It’s only surprising because I’m not sure who you are anymore.A VOICE: I’m supposed to be a mystery. ALTO: Maybe. But I hear Tallis and Bach and Hildegard von Bingen and I don’t feel mystery.
A VOICE: No?
ALTO: They all feel so sure in a way I haven’t since I was little, when I would sit here listening to my mother sing songs older than we’d ever be.A VOICE: I remember. ALTO: Her voice is hard to forget. It’s clear. It’s like...a warm crystal.A VOICE: I never created those.
ALTO: Yes, you did. Snowflakes.
A VOICE: Those are cold. ALTO: Not really. Snow is the warmest form of precipitation there is. Her voice falls on you in a blizzard of beauty and settles in your ears, ice cold and covering and achingly true. Snowflakes make life bearable; so does she.A VOICE: You seem sure of her. ALTO: I am.
A VOICE: No mystery?
ALTO: Oh, the biggest one. Her mystery is harder to believe than yours, but I can hear it more clearly. And I can sing along sometimes. Alto softly hums the soprano line of a Tallis piece and begins to cry. END OF PLAY.