The Dancer

On a cold Sunday morning in January, I awoke to the sound of wind and leaves rustling at my window. When I got up, the sting of the cold air made me shiver when it seeped into my flat. As I shaved, I saw my face in the mirror; twenty-five years old and full of promise, a fresh visage looked back at me.

My friend Julio passed away on Christmas Day and I picked up the phone to hear a dial tone, but I could not call him anymore. A Chopin waltz I played inspired me to dress up and drive to the forest, to escape the city and my sorrow for a moment.

When I reached Millbrook in Upstate New York, I drove around to find a solitary spot and the site of a demolished building spoke to me of loss. I put on war paint and spiked my hair.

I danced to remember.

I danced to grieve.

I danced, inspired by Pina Bausch and Martha Graham.

My dance was for you, my friend.

When it was over, I felt the brotherly love for my friend Julio intensified. I gave myself closure and the hope he had in me cheered me up. I have the right to succeed and the right to fail, so I will keep working every day toward my happiness.

rogue diary