Miss Mary, Ticket Taker

In the small, old theater,  

where popcorn smells mingled  

with the excitement of a night out,  

Miss Mary stood like a lighthouse,  

the flickering glow of a projector  

casting shadows on her friendly face.  

She had worked there since the talkies  

flooded the town like a new tide,  

fifty cents for adults,  

thirty-five for kids,  

each coin handed over  

like a small offering at dusk.  

She griped about the latest flicks,  

leaning in—“You’ll love this one!”—  

an intimate ritual,  

too personal to rush,  

for she knew who sat before her  

like old friends at a reunion.  

The theater felt like home,  

where everyone’s stories folded  

into the fabric of the screen,  

the laughter and tears exchanged  

in the soft light of an evening,  

each visit a memory reeling in.  

When the last credits rolled,  

and the audience drifted out,  

she would stand by the door,  

a sage in a velvet booth,  

as the ghosts of film and laughter  

slipped past her warm smile.