bekah brunstetter
Bekah Brunstetter I care deeply. About a lot of things. Like really, really deep. Ow
playwright in brooklyn, NY

when life pulls you inside

September 23rd, 2018 by Bekah Brunstetter

We were filming in a residential neighborhood Friday, and on our lunch break, I decided to power walk around it, to make up for all of the 27 tiny snickers bars I stress-ate between shots. As I stress-walked, I stress-thought about all of the things I needed to do, all of the undone things, both immediate and future, we need a lamp for the living room and I need to rewrite that movie and when will I become a pregnant person, and DID I fracture a rib when I face planted while stress-jogging last weekend, or what is that pain near my heart, is it just heart-pain? Or is it a slowly breaking heart? Then suddenly, a voice from a door, an old, sweet voice. It was a tiny old woman, pleading with me from her front step:  please come over, please come inside, I need your help. I went right over, and she kept pleading with me, lost and close to tears,  I need something, I don’t know what it is, but I need you to tell the neighbor, I already told her son, but I can’t remember why, I — her nurse stood behind her, with an over it look that infuriated me — it’s good that you’re here, she’s not authorized to — and I need someone to know, so it’s good that you know. I just need to get to my chair. Please help me get to my chair. And she took my hand, and I helped her inside, into an untouched living room, that she once lived in but now did not recognize, and we got her onto the couch. She took a few breaths. It’s good you’re here. It’s okay, now. You can go. But you come back, any time. Leave your address. I got her name, told her mine, and left. My walk back to work was thoughtful and present and slow. All stress, gone. All I could think of was how incredible it is it be trusted, and that there are people, and that they trust each other, and that they get old and no one sees them anymore, that the young people whir around them worrying about things they can’t control, that they stand lost in their own doorways, waiting for a young person to pass by.

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