The show closed.

And yes, that’s a little sad. Like finishing a good book or waving goodbye at the airport – one of those soft heartbreaks that’s really just gratitude with nowhere else to go.

But let’s not forget: in a world overflowing with unfinished scripts, almost-musicals, and “maybe-next-summers,” The Fork actually opened. Curtain up. Lights on. People in seats. That puts The Fork in rare company. According to some back-of-the-napkin math, maybe 0.00002% of show ideas ever make it that far. I made that number up, but it feels true, and that’s what counts in theater.

And how did our characters end each performance? Not with a dramatic death or a rousing, flag-waving chorus line, but with something far better: a big meal. Family and newly found friends gathered around a table, passing plates, stories, dancing, and that weird but wonderful warmth that shows up when the lights go down and strangers decide to care about something together. Love, laughter, and a meatball the size of your head.

I thought about that last night as my daughters and their families gathered together around our dinner table for our every-other Sunday big meal, where the menu includes good food, reflecting on good times, rallying support for each other as we face challenges coming our way, and the creation of new good memories, such as a snail farm built yesterday by the grandies in a shoebox (true story). These meals mark the moments to remember. Not a bad way to go until we can gather again in a fortnight.

My favorite kind of theater isn’t the kind that tries to change the world in one fell swoop. It’s the kind that sends folks home feeling a little better than when they arrived – kinder, lighter, maybe a little hungrier. If they wander off to a late dinner afterward and keep the conversation going, well then, that’s a win in my book. Cheesy? Sure. But also true. And cheese, as we’ve proven nightly, pairs very well with pasta.

I’ll admit: the first night I was well enough to attend the show, the audience just barely outnumbered the cast. It was one of those beautifully awkward evenings where the laughter echoes a little longer because there aren’t enough bodies to soak up the sound. But by closing night? The Hive was hauling out folding chairs like it was Thanksgiving at Grandma’s house. Elbow to elbow, full house, warm hearts. And yes, I wish we could start from there and keep going – maybe even extend the run. But hey, a playwright’s gotta dream.

Which brings me to you.

Maybe you’ve got a little dream of your own. A story, a painting, a garden, stained glass, a bakery that sells only scones shaped like famous literary figures. Whatever it is, I hope you don’t wait for the perfect time or a guaranteed audience. Most dreams don’t come with a map – just a hunch, some friends, and the courage to open the doors anyway and see what happens.

Because sometimes, if you’re lucky, you’ll find yourself surrounded by good people and a new batch of lovely stories and a giant meatball that defies physics and reason. And you’ll think: this… this was worth it.

Until next time, keep breaking hip.