My feet sink into the lush, vibrantly deep green grass. It feels silky soft, smooth and cool to my skin; just slightly long enough to be considered overgrown, and my feet leave gentle imprints where my weight has bent the blades.
Don't forget to count the trees: 1, 2, 3...
The mist has risen again tonight; gradient fog, clinging to the tall rows of trees I walk between-- swirling around my limbs as I step lightly down the center of the cedar grove.
4, 5, 6...
Glancing up, I see the moon. Big, beaming and shadowy as wispy clouds float across it's glowing face, almost pulsing in the night sky.
7, 8, 9...
He is ahead of me.
10, 11, 12...
He dances in the hollow, between the night and the dawn, balanced on the edges of things.
13.
The cedar trees tower over me on either side. I feel as though I am part walking, part swimming through a misty sea -- I can begin to see the outline of a person, standing ahead of me.
Taking a deep breath, I rise up on the balls of my feet, my toes bending at a 90 degree angle in demi-pointe, my arms raising up as I close my eyes and tilt my head back, with my eyes closed. A smile plays about my lips as I hold in sous-sous, sending energy out my fingertips, and down my feet into the earth.
He breaks into a loping run towards me. My breath catches because I can hear his feet thudding the earth, feel him propelling himself rapidly toward me. Air rushing past his strong body, I'm imagining his heart pounding slowly and steadily behind his ribs, but I keep my eyes closed.
Strong, warm hands grip my waist, then slide to my ribcage, as he gently lifts me into the air.
We dance.
Our muscles work hard, but these lifts, turns, balances... this partnering, feels effortless. He smells like clean sweat, cedar, vanilla bark, and rain on flagstone.
Hours pass. Then, our pas de deux finishes.
He rests his hands delicately on either side of my face, his thumbs feather-lightly stroking my eyelids.
"Please open your eyes." It is a polite request, not a voiced order, so I do. His voice is rich and medium toned.
"I've never seen you before now. You're.... different than what I pictured in my head," I half whisper, nodding self-consciously.
His eyes are golden pools of bourbon with flecks of mica, and they seem look through my outer surface, deeply into the center of my being. His gaze is gently probing, curious. His skin is the deepest, blackest coffee bean. The curves of his face are graceful and strong, like his dancing, and he looks.... familiar.
"I know you. How?" He smiles, and puts a finger to his lips, as if to say, 'no more questions...' Glancing down at my feet, I feel the heat rising in my cheeks. Suddenly he's sunk to a crouch and is tracing the outline of my skin colour changes with his fingertips. It's a very light touch along those borders across the tops of my bare feet, and I shiver.
"You are different. I like that. I like that you're not hiding your skin. I hope you're embracing this.... Vitiligo. This change."
"I've had it since I was little -- honestly, I feel as though it should bother me, but it doesn't. It's just... how I look."
"Amazing, and... symmetrical."
"I suppose. Eventually, my whole body will be white as a ghost."
"Does that upset you?"
"Not really... I feel cool.... like a leopard who can change its spots. It doesn't change my heritage or who I am, it's just... part of how I look. Universal vitiligo, I mean. It doesn't change who my parents are, or my culture. I'll miss how my darkest freckles look against my walnut coloured skin, but I was born with strawberry blonde hair anyway. I'm used to looking unique."
"I do find the patterns of it, the contrast between light and dark exotically fascinating."
"Thank you."
"How did you come to be here? Who sent your invitation."
"I thought you... ?"
"No. I am the partner. I lead the dance, someone else sends the second. How were you invited?"
"I found a note under my pillow. There have been three. Three notes to come here. Instructions to keep my eyes closed once I pass the 13th cedar tree... to dance blindly until beckoned to see."
"Ah. Curly handwriting? Sepia toned ink? Parchment fashioned from the bark of a Birch tree?"
"Yes."
"Interesting."
"So, you know who sent me the invitations?" He paused, as if unwilling or uncertain that answering my question would be the right thing to say.
"Mmmm. Why did you accept?"
"I miss pas de deux. I miss... being part of a company."
"I'd like to hear more about that experience and the feelings associated with it. Now, however, we must part ways."
"Now that I've seen you -- I know it was you the other two times, the other two dances. I'd recognize you with my eyes closed, even though now I know what you look like."
"Appearances can be deceiving, but bodies -- movements, following and leading, heartbeats and quality of touch -- those never lie."
"Is there a way for me to write to you? To contact you?"
"You'll receive a different sort of invitation. You must go now."
"Good bye then."
"Good evening." He did a triple fouetté then took a knee and placed my hand on his heart for a moment. Then, he was gone, running back up the line and disappearing into the mist.
I turned on my heel, unsure of my feelings. Strange though my dreams may be, I'd never have previously believed that I could accept an invitation into someone else's, or an in-between place, or wherever we were.
Closing my eyes, I began to walk backward the way I came -- counting my breaths to 13, until the swirling fog began to rise up my body -- colder and colder. I felt myself floating away again, falling backwards, and when I opened my eyes again, I was safely under my old, worn cotton comforter. Staring up at the old stick-on-glow-in-the-dark stars I had put up on my bedroom ceiling on my 11th birthday, I sighed.
Tomorrow I'll finish unpacking. I'll move into the master bedroom.
Saying goodbye to my parents had been heart-breaking and the most difficult thing I'd ever done, but I couldn't keep pretending that I was all right. Sleeping in my childhood bedroom, waiting, as if they were going to come home any minute.
I'm 23 years old. I can do this. The funeral was 3 months ago. It's over. That was the hardest part, right? I can make this house less empty if I finish unpacking and sorting. Mom would want me to 'get on with it,' as she'd say.
Glancing at the clock; 1:11 A.M.
I grabbed Pride and Prejudice, from my nightstand -- Jane Austen would help me sleep. Help me forget that I was alone in my deceased parents' house, and engaging in strangely lucid dream fantasies.
Maybe I've been elaborately hallucinating.
No, if I was crazy, then how come I'd saved the all too materially real notes -- stuck them into the pocket of my day-planner to remind myself that I had something to look forward to. For now, sleep. Sleep would get me to the new day tomorrow-- or the rest of today, rather.
I'll start with the stars. It's time for them to come down, and fresh paint to go up. 'Nothing less expensive works to transform a room than a gallon of paint,' Mom always said.
Yes. Tomorrow, the stars come down.
The heavens fall.
The earth moves.
The sun rises.
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