She danced to a rhythm only she could hear.
When she first started dancing nearly forty years ago, she had no wings.
But it was often said she danced as an angel might, her long skirts flowing and twirling.
She danced at home. She danced in the streets. She danced her way into church and she danced in the Safeway while choosing frozen peas.
I believe she danced through her dreams each night and then danced 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 she danced her way there.
She paused in her dancing through the biopsy and danced up a storm when the doctor told her the lumps were benign. She danced as she told the doctor she’d live with the lumps.
But the lumps grew and within a few months they sprouted tiny downy feathers.
She danced her delight.
By year’s end, the downy feathers had become tiny wings.
Each year the wings grew, and each year she got her clothing adjusted to accommodate their size. After seven years the wings stopped growing.
With her wings, when she danced she could flutter off the floor, spin in the air, and touch lightly down. She danced her joy at having wings.
She said she would dance on her own grave.