Dances

There were many dances that I had gone through. That little primary school jig I did with Daddy. That gentle waltz I performed with my darling little sister. And most of all, that unforgettable high school ball. I was sixteen, and now I am twenty, and I am learning a new dance. I would not tell you now, for fear you would run away. Instead, like a painter that you were, I would paint it all out.
You always loved to listen to my stories, even the craziest stories, even the drowsy stories, and even the made up fantasy world stories that we lived in. We lived in many worlds, didn't we? That painted yellow one, when the world's craziest backstabbers were bees and we were the queen and king. That sticky peach one, when we both were James, and the peach was our castle. Oh! That one when it was blue and black and our tears formed the drowning pool in which we swam in...but am I going off topic?
Yes, the stories. Stories was were we lived when you were ill. Where we thrived. Where we laughed and sang. Where we weeped over that dreaded hospital paper, written in fateful black ink and stamped in poison green. But wait, wasn't that just yesterday? Wasn't it just yesterday that you went off? Now, what off is this. Off, like milk? Or off like gone. I wish with all my heart that it was the first. That way we would still be here, laughing, telling stories, smiling and crying together.
The colours I paint now, my beautiful, are black and blue, like the bruises you got when you fell. I remember that day like it happened yesterday. The sky was a lovely blue colour, and the air was fresh with the hint of spring. Except it wasn't quite spring yet. We were taking a walk, when the incident happened. You fell, not because you were pushed, but because of a chest pain. Oh, that cursed chest pain! I can see you now as I paint the picture, tears forming in my eyes. You were crying, your lovely green eyes clouded over with a layer of water. So pretty, so sad, so hurt.
Now the colours on my brush are red and clouded, and I am painting out my anger and grief. Red, like your hair, always braided in a pretty braid hanging down your shoulder. I remember how I used to say that you should leave your hair down, never knowing that this would happen. That it was only in the hospital that my wish would be fulfilled.

I miss you so much. I miss you like I miss my childhood. How I wished you were right here with me, dancing that alluring waltz we did together. Your eyes were shining and bright. Now they are dull and covered.
You should know why, for, Jessie, I am learning the dance of death. I will learn it well, for you.

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