On February 28th, 2014
you took me in your arms
and asked me to dance
as though I had a choice.
I can't recall now if you
held out your hand and if
it was cold. I can't recall
if you were gentle or forceful.
I don't know if you spoke
to me. Enticed me. Persuaded
me. Or coerced me. I only
know I didn't care to dance.
I was tired. Heartbroken.
I was sick with sadness.
My feet would not move.
I didn't care to dance.
You lifted me up and set me
down anyway, my feet atop
yours. When you moved left,
I moved left. When you moved
right, I moved right. We dipped
and swayed and spun and it was
nothing like dancing with my love.
I was listless. I wanted him back.
You propped me up, held me
below my arms. My head bobbing
like a drunk. My legs buckled at
the knees. I didn't care to dance.
For hours and then days and then
weeks and then months we danced
a ridiculous dance to the sounds of
dissonant chords and empty spaces.
There was no time to eat. Sleep
came in grotesque intervals. Once
I thought I heard you laugh as my
head slumped down to find rest.
Dip and twirl. Spin and sway. I
was sick from the constant motion.
I only wanted to rest. How is it
that you can keep going like this?
I have been continuously dancing
for one hundred and ninety-six days.
Other dancers see it. They see me
spinning. They recognize these moves.
To everyone else my movements
are fluid. They do not see you there
beneath my feet, leading me, holding
me up, spinning me around. They
think I'm actually choosing to dance
like this. Look! they cry. Look at how
she moves! Oh, Bridget. What a gift!
Look how his death has allowed you to dance!
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