She liked to dance.
When she danced, she did it with tall kicks and elegant swirls, like every motion was a profound act of creation. Though she seldom closed her eyes while she moved, she never focused them, either.
She liked to turn off all the lights in the room when she danced, except for one that cast light through star shaped holes onto the walls. She would dance through the projections like a clumsy meteor or the moon. She did so profusely until interrupted by exhaustion.
When she received the news of her father’s death, she danced and danced and danced, until her feet gave way and she sprinkled the old wood floor with her tears.
It was with him that she shared the most of herself. And her father, he used to dote on her words. He thought the world of the way she laid herself out like an open book, the details of her demons an ugly painting for anyone who cared to look. The fierce ones that made her feel small she would describe as claret. The repulsive ones that made her face pinch were chartreuse. The ones that soothed her like chamomile tea and smooth jazz were supposed to were deemed alabaster.
She wished he had done the same, so she could dance to remember, instead of dancing to forget.
