Voices in the Stillness

Scene: "Voices in the Stillness"

Lighting is dimmed, reminiscent of twilight. The funeral parlor is sparse but heavy with the weight of loss. Muted chatter fills the background as guests mill about, murmuring condolences. Two women, Aunt Phyllis and Aunt Marjorie, sit slightly apart on a worn velvet bench. They clutch their black purses tightly, clad in their finest funeral attire. Across the room, their niece, Eleanor, is a vibrant streak of light in the somber scene, engaging in animated conversation with a cluster of mourners. Her voice, bright and insistent, fills the space. Phyllis sighs deeply, her shoulders curling in obvious irritation.

Phyllis: (with a glance toward Eleanor) For heaven's sake, does she ever stop? Chattering like a magpie at a—at a funeral, of all places.

Marjorie: (fingering the beads of her necklace) Keeps going, doesn’t she? Like a wind-up toy you can’t turn off. Honestly, it’s exhausting just listening to her.

Phyllis: (whispering but irate) She's barely let anyone else get a word in. Poor Harriet over there tried to share a story about Gerald—nothing. Ellie just kept on yammering, like—like she didn’t even hear her! Just pounced.

Marjorie: (eyeing Eleanor with a scowl) And those hand gestures! Waving around like she’s performing for an audience. It’s unseemly.

Phyllis: (louder, exasperated) Can’t the girl just sit still for once? Just for today, of all days? Honestly, Marjorie,I—A sudden voice interrupts. Rachel, an older woman with silvery hair and an air of quiet wisdom, has approached unnoticed. She stands behind the two and fixes them with a calm, knowing look.

Rachel: (gently but firmly) You know, I heard a man once complain about how his wife left her tea bags in the sink. He grumbled about it every day until, one morning, she didn’t wake up. Do you think he cared about tea bags after that? Or sinks, for that matter?

(Phyllis and Marjorie flinch at the interruption, falling silent. Rachel steps forward, her gaze softening as she glances toward Eleanor.)

Rachel: That girl over there… Your niece? She’s alive. She’s talking. That’s her way of remembering. Of mourning. Sharing who she is—who she’s been—while she still can.And if… heaven forbid… you never get to hear her voice again, will you be glad you spent this moment wishing she’d stop?

(Rachel places a kind hand on Marjorie’s shoulder and waits. Neither woman speaks. Phyllis lowers her eyes, embarrassed, as Rachel exhales a sigh and moves away, disappearing back into the room. There’s a long, reflective pause. Marjorie adjusts her necklace.)

Marjorie: (quietly) I remember when she was five. Ellie. She couldn’t pronounce my name—called me “Aunt Marshmallow” for two years. Never stopped talking even then.

(They both chuckle faintly, despite themselves. Phyllis looks toward Eleanor, whose hands are moving wildly as she recounts a memory to a group of relatives who are smiling, laughing softly.)

Phyllis: (after a pause, softly) Harold always said the house was too quiet when he got home. He used to say he missed the noise from… well, from when the kids were little. The paper crinkling under their homework, the sound of shoes running down the hallway. I didn’t think much of it then.

(Marjorie turns toward her sister, catching a glimpse of tears welling in her eyes. She places a hand gently over Phyllis’s.)

Marjorie: (whispering) I think we forget how much we need all the noise…the sound of the living, of the ones we love.

(They watch as Eleanor bursts into laughter, and despite her brightness, there’s a bittersweet tension beneath it. Phyllis swallows whatever she was about to say. Marjorie pats her sister’s hand quietly.)

Phyllis: (after a beat, almost a whisper) Maybe Rachel’s got a point.

(The lights dim slightly, spotlighting Eleanor as she speaks animatedly. Her voice echoes faintly, out of sync with her movement, as if it’s both present and distant—a sound that lingers. The voices of Phyllis and Marjorie fade, leaving only Eleanor’s voice as she says a line that encapsulates her story.)

Eleanor: (to the group, smiling through tears) …But, you know, life is funny. People always tell you to quiet down, to sit still, to not take up so much space. I learned later that only happens because they’ve never had to miss someone who did.

(The lights fade entirely until only the sound of Eleanor’s voice lingers, haunting and real, then cuts to silence.)

End scene.