It was her last dance. Perhaps mine too. Neither of us could dance again knowing the other wouldn’t or couldn’t. Dancing was a direct path to the centre, of ourselves. Every pore opened itself to the possibilities of the beyond as the beats resonated through the room.
Fighting cancer would soon consume all her energy. She wanted her last dance to be one filled with pride, joy, and a dedication to her art and talent. Not one of exhaustion or retreating into a safe place. The latter seemed weak-willed. She didn’t want to tarnish something so beautiful with that. It is what she told herself.
I wished she would continue during her fight. She needed the energy. It is what I told myself.
But, dancing with her or even watching her dance would make it easier for me. Less real and less painful.