When I was growing up, my mom played The Phantom of the Opera soundtrack on my dad’s old record player every time we had to do chores. Clean the kitchen? She danced around singing “All I Ask of You” (is to wipe the cabinets). Vacuum the family room? The opening notes of “The Phantom of the Opera” could be seen in the patterns on the floor. 

I remember hearing my mom’s story about going to New York with her best friend and seeing the original Broadway cast of Phantom. I remember the first time she took me to see the show when it was on tour in Baltimore, and the momentary rush I felt when I saw the chandelier drop for the first time. 

Fifteen years later, I was one of the lucky few who got to see it rise for the last time. 

On September 16, 2022, the Broadway production of Phantom announced it was closing after a 35 year run, citing high production costs in the wake of the pandemic. 

The first thing I did was text my mom and sister, informing them I was determined to attend the final performance of this historic, beloved, iconic production, and welcomed them to join me. 

Three months and several stressful minutes on the ticket website later, I managed to get two tickets for me and mom for Phantom’s final public performance on April 15, 2023. 

As I stood in line outside The Majestic Theatre in Times Square, those that stood in line with me were giddy, just like I was. Some were dressed to the nines, ready to document and witness this historic moment. Others were dressed in their Phantom finest, adorned with the infamous Phantom mask concealing their faces. Still others took a more subtle route, like the woman in a white lace dress with her tuxedo-clad companion. 

Theater lovers passed us on the sidewalk, cheering for Phantom and shouting words of love and encouragement. One man even belted out the infamous titular song as he walked by, reveling in this moment. As I so often am in moments like this, I was taken aback by the sense of the community I felt. Everyone around me knew what this weekend meant and was determined to make it a grand affair. As the rain came pouring down and the lights of Times Square began to blur into a sea of colors and lights on the crowded streets, it was like the entire theater district was in mourning over the loss of this beloved production. 

As my mom and I entered the theater, we could feel the energy in the air. There was something, well, majestic, about the Majestic Theatre and all of its golden splendor. Everyone around us had the same giddy smiles on their face as snippets of nostalgic conversations and memories of first Phantom performances could be heard from passersby. We all knew we were about to witness something special and be a part of theater history, much like audiences were during Broadway’s opening weekend after the pandemic. 

While it is not uncommon to see variation between a Broadway set and the national tour version, I was shocked to see just how different and far more elaborate the Broadway version of Phantom really was. The boat ride to the Phantom’s lair is always a theatrical feat, but on a Broadway stage as it was originally envisioned? Overwhelming. I had tears in my eyes, if not streaming down my face, the entire show. 

When the final, single spotlight went down on the Phantom mask for the last time for public audiences, there was a moment of electric silence before the room erupted into applause like I have never heard. Everyone was on their feet, wiping their tears in between performer bows. The cast left the stage, the lights came up, and still the applause did not stop. Not a single person headed for the exit, and everyone remained on their feet, cheering and crying in an overwhelming moment of community, love, and thanks for the theater. 

One by one, the cast came back on stage, causing the crowd to get even louder. They joined us in our tears and our applause, and our own gratitude was reflected back at us. Still we did not stop, and eventually the crew emerged from the wings, reveling in their well deserved success. By now, audience members had slowly come closer to the stage, filling the aisles to get a better view of the chandelier, one of theater’s most iconic and beloved set pieces in history, high overhead. We began to chant “one more song” over and over, until finally one man on the stage raised his hand for silence. He introduced himself as the chandelier operator and offered to bring it down in one, last, grand, heart-stopping sweep one last time. 

For the first time since the lights came on, the room was silent as the chandelier came down before it erupted in applause again, this time with everyone crying harder than ever as the chandelier began its final, slow ascent back up. The cast and crew, still on stage in astonishment over our refusal to leave, began to sing. The room went silent again before joining in their beautiful, messy, haunting, full-of-emotion rendition of “Happy Trails” by Roy Rogers and Dale Evans, a long-standing, traditional goodbye in the theater world for cast, crew, and productions themselves. 

I will likely never see these people again, but in the nearly 45 minutes after that final spot went dark, we became a ph-amily. I will forever remember the outpouring of love and gratitude in the room that night as over 1,600 people were awash in their own memories and came together to create a new one as bright and bold as the lights on that shining chandelier. The Phantom of the Opera is here, inside my mind.