dance remedy for nostalgia

 She wasn’t there, of course. She hadn’t been there, dancing with you in your childhood home, for over a year now - ever since she fell sick.

But sometimes you pretended she was. Sometimes, on days like today when the moon shone bright through the curtains and a hush seemed to descend over the neighbourhood, it felt like she was only a step away; and if you turned around just fast enough, walked just one step further, she’d be smiling at you like nobody else in the world was more perfect. Maybe it was love, maybe pride. She looked at you like you were the most exquisite thing she created. You placed the needle down on the record player and let the music wash over you, letting you forget how it felt to watch her leave, watch her eyes dull as she faded away. No. This night was no place for that. You danced the steps like she’d taught you, with light, fleeting footsteps and a smile on your face. And if you focused very, very hard, you could almost imagine her there with you; guiding you through the melody, a casual touch here, a chiming laugh there. And as you danced, you were lost to the music - the rest of the world could go to hell. You didn’t stop dancing when the song stopped, and you didn’t stop dancing when the moon faded away and the sun peeked through the curtains. You didn’t stop dancing when the milkman came, and you didn’t stop dancing when the doorbell rang. You didn’t stop dancing, because if you did, then you knew you would never start again.



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