Our last dance
Every once in a while, the merest word or snippet of a melody will evince a rush of memories; sometimes a particular scent does the same, as occasionally does a setting. Such memories, when they emanate, are powerful and vivid.
They often elicit warm remembrances; some highlight pleasant moments. But occasionally there are those that serve to rekindle the smoldering ache in my heart, stirring the embers until a near-physical pain engulfs me as though a huge, grasping talon clutched cruelly at my chest. It is thus when I hear a particular song, listening to the radio alone in the quiet of my home ...
My eyes drink you in as you sit there across the table, looking at me with your bluest of blue, China-doll eyes, the faintest frown creasing your brow and your lips set in that slight pout that never fails to melt my heart. We are to attend a wedding and reception soon, and you are upset that you lack skill on the dance floor -- you don't want to embarrass me. Imagine! My perfect angel, coping each minute of each hour of each day with all of your pain and without complaint, yet worrying about me.
Of course I chuckle and tease you because it is my way of coping with what you must endure; I am powerless to help you, helpless without the power to make you better. I tease you until, finally, I perceive the distress etched in your beautiful face and hear the concern in your voice. Your concern becomes my concern.
My God, how sweet, how frail you look with that little frown. What to say? What to say except to tell you that neither of us would ever make a living on the dance floor -- and then you smile. If you could only see how perfect your smile is, how lovely you look, how your smile lights up any room and warms the most hardened soul. I surprise you when I suddenly stand, take you by the hand, and inform you that we are going to practice right here, right now. I clear the living room floor, select some of your favorite music, and take you in my arms.
I am amazed at how you tremble, how nervous you are. Relax, I murmur, just relax and let your hips move the rest of your body. We dance and we dance, and you learn how to waltz. You feel good to me and I want your head resting on my shoulder forever. My thoughts blur and I drift back to our first date on a warm September evening in Arizona, the intimate, dimly-lit jazz club, our first dance that was something more, our first kiss, and the magic that infused our fairy tale-like chance meeting.
My mind returns from our dance then to our dance now, and as I hold you in my arms I see your eyes sparkle with delight; the frown is gone and your smile is dazzling. I feel your warmth through my shirt and I draw you still closer to me. I hold you tightly as we dance, smelling your just-washed hair, knowing and believing that I will never let you go. You are so familiar to me, so natural and I cannot express how wonderful life is with you in my arms. I no longer hear the music but it is of little concern because I know we need no music - we can dance together, forever ...
We didn't attend the wedding; you did not feel well and although you were determined to go, I would not hear of it. Though we were not aware, you were already engaged in the final encounter, the culmination of what was a five-year struggle against illness to survive, to live, to love, to dance.
Memories within memories will be with me always, from first stanza to finale. We had a special, precious dance together, you and I, for so many years. But my sweet, beautiful Irene, I never imagined, never foresaw that on that day we would dance our last.