They Dance

1st in the 'Xtreme Read 2009' competition

Her hair seems to glow in the light of the lamps littering the dark street. Her eyes are a white contrast to the black around her, but her head is bent downwards, her eyes staring intently at the ground and they are shielded from any who might watch her. She shuffles along, not moving too fast or too slow. Her feet patter on the side-walk, making just the faintest of noises. She moves from street lamp to street lamp, like a fugitive.

The darkness is like a cloak that surrounds her, protects her. She sinks further into it. She hides. She thinks she hears someone whistling, and her head snaps up, but it is only the wind whipping through the trees in its quest for company. She hunkers down again. The darkness may be her cloak, but it does nothing to keep out the cool night air. Her shuffling gets quicker; she wants to reach home soon.

She feels the first drops of rain wet her cheeks just as she reaches the gate to her home. It swings open slowly, with a loud groan of protest. It is too old to move fast. She steps inside and walks, slow now, up the paved pathway that winds through her garden. Away from the street lamps, it is the moon that illuminates the delicate petals of the flowers that grow there. The darkness doesn’t scare her here, and she walks slower still, drinking it all in. The moonlight bathes her in a soft white glow as she begins to twirl amongst her flowers. The old skirt she wears flares out beneath her, the gray-black cotton swishing outwards. She herself becomes a flower, just another part of the garden. And she is beautiful.

She slows her movements and almost dances to the door. She sheds her cloak of darkness just before she steps inside the brightly lit house. She leaves it by the door, and it slips away to merge with the rest of the night. She can retrieve it again, when she next needs it. Away from the magic of her flower garden, she feels her limbs start to grow heavy and slow. She no longer feels the grace and ease of just a moment ago. She is no longer possessed by magic and impossibility.

As she moves through the hallway, she catches a glimpse of herself in the antique mirror above the bookcase. Her skin in wrinkled, her hair white and sparse. Her back is bent just a little too much and her hands are plagued with arthritis. But, her translucent blue eyes, they don’t age. In them she can see the woman she used to be. And they dance.

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