Rolling Green Hills

A dramatic monologue. To be performed with “Mary” as a photograph.


(before she starts speaking, puts a kettle on to boil)

I remember Mary, when I was young, the rolling green hills I would walk past on my way to school.

Do you remember them?

I can still see them, there.

It’s not a very good view from where I am now.

A retirement home, that is. Not a hospital, no.

They wanted me to go to a hospital but I refused. I’m still my stubborn old self, Mary, you’d chuckle if you saw how little I’ve changed.

Stupid doctors and their silly medicines and methods, telling me what I can and can’t do.

Can and can’t remember.

I remember it all.

When we were young, there were these rolling green hills that we would walk past on our way to school.

See, I can remember just fine.

Silly doctors told me I might forget.

Forget what I used to remember.

Forget what I’m doing.

(pauses, then shakes her head in disbelief).

(Looks over at the steaming kettle)

Who in god’s name put that darned thing on? I don’t want tea!

Often, Mary. Often people come in and do things for me, like open the blinds, or put the shower on.

Without me even asking Mary!

How preposterous.

Sometimes they try to tell my I’m doing these things, Mary, and I just don’t remember.

But my memories quite fine, my dear Mary. Quite fine indeed.

I remember these beautiful rolling green hills, huge turtles protruding from the earth. We would walk past when we were going to school.

(looks over at kettle)

I think I might have a cup of tea after all.

(walks over and pours a cup of tea, then takes it back to the chair she was sitting at. As she sips her tea she stares at the picture of Mary, a look of confusion on her face)

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