The Final Credits

Directed by A sentimental, young soul

Written by A silver-haired body with liver-spotted hands and shaky knees, lips that can’t speak out loud but whisper to the mind

Produced by Mama and Tata; two immigrants with one busted suitcase.

Pregnant with a child and a new, bustling city

Cast

(in order of appearance)

Mama My Protector, my trusted council, the Hearst in our home

Dad Tata, a Teacher of Wood and Paint, religious only to his family

Wife Amelia; Stewart of my Heart, my purpose and muse, sewing mirth into the fabric of life

Son Jakub; Lover of nature, finder of lost things, bringing me pieces of my parent’s country when my legs won’t go far

Daughter Celina; The brightness of the stars against the night sky, reading me old novels that feel like new tales when my hands shake too much, kindred soul

Director of Photography Lewis, Tolkien, Orwell, pages lending to the imagination of the

youth. Sketchbooks of Oak trees and lights shining on dim streets. The wood I carve to tables and chairs, generations of people communing around them to break bread

Editor A transcendent, fragmented mind

Costume Designer Scrappy loafers, aged denim, the sun carving wrinkles Music Composer Notes from my mother’s father floating from the baby grand Casting Director The unraveling thread in my favorite wool shirt; leading me to

a loud seamstress in a corner shop in Queens. Amelia spent a lifetime mending my trousers and heart until the end. Bringing daffodils and coffee with sweet cream every Friday to her stone in soft ground. Still feel her, patching my mind with new colors and old songs on vinyl endlessly turning

UNIT

Drivers A mossy bike at 9, a fully restored Ford for two decades, my wife then my grown children. Radio melodies call me back to them, waving away concerned gazes

Catering Chocolate Babka on chipped china from my grandson, my mother’s cinnamon streusel, Pierogi dumplings and Pernik every December

Head Chef Amelia, lips sticky with syrup and coffee scrolls every sunny

Sunday for forty-two years. Burning everything I handled when she was sick, us laughing about it. Giggles like windchimes as a source of nutrition

Health & Safety Advisor  Kind woman in blue scrubs who hums tunes I don’t know, but

rather like. Scribbling notes while I smile, remembering

*While the characters and events depicted in this film are based on real people and events happening through a corporeal lens, the actual subject matter is derived from the creative compositions of the soul despite the loss of cognitive functioning. While the human body is invented to inevitably decline, the spirit has no cognitive and/or physical limitations to merge life and art.

Sarah Wolfe’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in publications including Cathexis Northwest Press, Wingless Dreamer, Winamop, Misfit Magazine, and Synkroniciti. When she is not writing or giving Reiki sessions you can often find her out and about Jersey City in parks, coffee shops, yoga studios, or lost in a really good book.