Mary Lennox, a 14-year-old English girl, has just met her cousin Colin Craven.
(Warning: Using this monologue without permission is illegal, as is reproducing it on a website or in print in any way.)
Your eyes are beautiful. It's odd—when I try to remember Mother's face, it's like looking in a foggy mirror. And when I think of my Ayah the fog clears. That's pathetic, don't you think? To remember a servant and not your own mother. (Beat.) But this portrait is so like. It brings her back, as if Mother were right here—seated at her dressing table. I can almost hear the ghostly orchestra rehearsing in the ballroom.
(Lights up on Camilla seated at her dressing table, pinning Camellias in her hair.)
Mother loved to dance. She had so many beautiful gowns. I used to sneak into her room and study her reflection in the looking glass. I loved to see our faces in the mirror, side by side. Sometimes she'd let me try on one of her pretty jewels. "Stop chattering at me like a monkey. Come, give us a kiss." And I would go and kiss the air, next to her cheek.
She was always getting ready to leave.
After everyone died, I went back to the looking glass to see if I could make her appear. There was a camellia dying in a bowl of water. I was so thirsty, I drank the water.
(Lights out on ghost dresser.)
Her name was Camellia. She loved to pin flowers in her hair.