A few weeks ago I went to a writing group I occasionally attend. One of the prompts was a drawing of a woman with wings. She appeared to be dancing. Here’s what came from that prompt.
08 August 2014
She dances to a rhythm only she can hear.
When she first started dancing, nearly forty years ago, she had no wings.
But it was, and still is, often said that she dances as an angel might, her long skirts flowing and twirling.
She dances at home. She dances in the streets. She dances her way into church and she dances in the Safeway while choosing frozen peas.
I believe she dances through her dreams each night. I believe she dances her dreams each day.
About fifteen years ago, she found a lump. Rather, she found two. She eventually danced her way to the doctor’s office where she was referred to a specialist, and then danced her way there.
She paused in her dancing through the biopsy and danced up a storm when she was told the lumps were not cancerous. She danced as she told the doctor she’d live with the lumps.
But the lumps grew. And within a few months they’d sprouted tiny downy feathers. She danced her delight.
By the end of that year, the downy feathers had become tiny wings.
She danced to Chavella’s house to get her dresses altered to accommodate the wings.
Each year the wings have grown, and each year she gets her clothing altered to accommodate the size.
She says she will dance on her own grave.