January 20, 2014

I once had a friend who taught me always to listen for waltzes in unexpected places.

One two three.

We danced a waltz. I didn’t know how. I danced anyway, apologizing with each misstep. I learned this way. Oh, how we laughed with every stumble.

Two two three.

I moved away. It was a mistake I’d learn later. It was a mistake for me, for no one else. Another misstep. My toes crushing my other toes. No apologies necessary.

Three two three.

I sobbed for hours when I learned that a fire had forced my waltzing instructor out of this world. No more breaths left to count. This was a mistake, like any other. The record skipped and just stopped. Right there. Waltzers stopped and howled at the unfairness of it. Then I made so many more mistakes. But I learned that way.

Four two three.

I still listen to every song like it might be a waltz. Sometimes I dance. Sometimes the weight of knowing squashes me down, and holds me too tight. The record ends. I restart it.

One two three.

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