She never took the stage, but she stole the spotlight in my heart.
The Final Bow: A Curtain Call for The Kitchen Witches and My Granny By Seth Simmers
On May 25th, Lori Smilowitz, Susan Comfort, Ron Smith, and I took our final bow in the Off Broadway Players’ production of The Kitchen Witches by Caroline Smith. The laughter was loud, the applause warm, and the joy infectious. It was, by all accounts, a successful close to a production filled with heart. But for me, that final curtain carried a weight far heavier than the stage could hold.
Just over a month before our opening night, my grandmother, Phyllis Campbell, went to be with the Lord.
Most of you in the community know me—you’ve seen me on stage, backstage, at rehearsals, or volunteering. But many of you never met my Granny. And yet, she’s been a significant part of my journey in the world of theater. She was my biggest supporter, my gentle coach, and the soul behind every character I’ve had the honor to play.
Granny lived with Multiple Sclerosis (MS) for over 30 years. MS is a cruel disease—slow, unpredictable, and unforgiving. But it never defined her. What defined her was grace, grit, and an unwavering love for her family. No matter how hard the day or how limited her body became, she showed up—for her children, her grandchildren, and for every show I was ever in. If she couldn’t walk easily, she found a way. If she was in pain, she smiled through it. She never missed the moments that mattered.
She adored our theater—not just the spectacle, but the people and the heart of it. She understood the beauty of community storytelling. She believed in the power of laughter, in the emotion of shared silence, and in the importance of being present. And she was always present—for me.
This season, I told her it was for her. I said it aloud before she left. I told her, “This show is yours, and this whole season is dedicated to you.” She knew. And I believe she carried that with her.
As we approached opening night, I found myself desperate for something—some token or symbol to bring her into that space with us. I went to her house hoping to find something, and there, just inside the front door, was something I had somehow never truly seen: a cross-stitch. Framed in warm wood. It read: Phyllis’ Kitchen.
I had walked past it for over two decades, never once realizing it was there. But now, it felt like it had been waiting. Waiting for this moment.
That cross-stitch became the centerpiece of our final set. It hung at the heart of the stage, behind us in every scene. To the audience, it was a charming detail. But to me, it was her hands, her home, her love. It was the room where we broke bread and watched I Love Lucy, where she and Grandpa made homemade mac and cheese—they made it together, but we all knew whose kitchen it was. It was the room where I learned that stories matter. That people matter.
On closing night, as the spotlight dimmed, I didn’t just see the end of a play—I saw the end of a shared chapter. That narrowing beam of light, slowly fading, became the eye of remembrance. And the applause that followed? It wasn’t just for us. It was for her.
My final bow that night wasn’t just mine—it was hers. For every scene she helped me prepare. For every fear she calmed. For every show she attended, no matter the cost to her body. She may not have been on the program, but she was in every moment.
Granny may not have been known to all of you. But if you’ve ever enjoyed a performance I’ve been in, you’ve witnessed her legacy. She was the quiet strength behind the curtain. The hand that steadied my voice. The reason I kept pressing on.
To Granny—thank you. For your courage, your laughter, your faith in God and in me. For helping me find my light, even in your final days.
This bow was for you. This show was for you.
This whole season is yours. Until we meet again.
One final thanks to the Off Broadway Players for supporting my family and I during this time. You stood by our side and showed the heart Granny saw in all of you. Your friendship will forever be in our hearts. The OBP is more than a theatre—it’s a family. Thank you.
