Act 1. Scene 1...

Scene 1: (A single light bulb is turned on revealing a staircase leading to a middle-class basement. The scene is dry, dingy. There are cobwebs that litter the once well maintained room. An old man of 87 years has pulled the light string and grabs the railing with a calloused hand and weary sigh. A staircase never used to trip the shaking in his hand. The sun spots from vacations with his family in Florida mark his now bald head. Down the stairs hang photographs of his wife and himself. One is their wedding, one is the first night with their baby son. The final picture is of the old man and his son greeting guests at a funeral reception. How long ago was it now that his wife passed? He still wears the ring. Years ago he tried to remove it but it would not come loose. He never tried again after that day.

The old man takes each step with trepidation. His life has been reduced to the slow pace and focus on each step. He advances towards the corner of the room where light no longer shone.

A blanket rests atop a vintage radio broadcast board. The microphone a cast silver relic of the 50's. An individual desk lamp is turned on to reveal the priceless and obsolete part of history. Pulling the chair from under the board, the old man removes the framed picture of himself all those years ago behind the same board. His eyes are just as sharp, though the lines in his face have grown long and rarely does he smile anymore.

He sits in a heavy movement that pulls his shoulders down with him. Gently he runs the tips of his fingers across the levels he knows better than anything else in his life. Anything save for the face of wife. He sees her face in the mirror each morning when he dresses and beside him in bed before he falls asleep. He never can dream of her.

Gracefully he leans into the microphone)