count your blessings

It is a quiet, chilled, evening tonight. The sun fell beneath the buildings early today (at least in my opinion) and ever since four o’clock, the city has been draped in a bleak darkness. I am currently writing this while cuddled next to the radiator under the kitchen window. A colorful blanket (that I got for my great deed of graduation, if you remember) is wrapped around my legs like a butterflies cocoon. I have two pairs of socks on to cover my tingling toes. My hands are purple. I know it is from the lack of blood they receive due to my disease, but I like to pretend it is just because they are too cold, like in cartoons.

 

            Looking outside the window, there is no light, except from an apartment window a few rooftops away. The curtains are drawn; open wide, and I can easily see the figures of an older male and female dancing. It is a slow dance, their bodies crippled with memories of a good life, but you can see they are in love. I sit here, imagining their lives. I guess they have housed three kids, two boys and one daughter, who are now all grown up and on their own travels. Maybe they fell in love early and were surprised with a child at a young age, pulling the idea of marriage faster than they thought it would come. The way they are holding each other is frail, beautiful, and supportive. It makes me think of my parents dancing on Friday nights after my Mother has had a stressful week at work.

            My Father used to always put on Macy Gray at five on Friday nights, in anticipation for my Mother to come home. Gabrielle and I, dancing together, watching my Dad nod his head and stir whatever meal he was making, a glass a wine swirling in his hand. He always comes over and grabs me, rocking me side to side, twirling me out. Ever since I was little my parents and I would dance together. I think they are the reason I love it so much and, not to brag, is why I am pretty good dance partner. My mom would do this twist to the floor as soon as she got into more comfortable clothes.  It is her signature move that the two of us always pull out at weddings. We wouldn’t eat until eight or nine, but no one cared because we were too busy in the music and the environment.

            I wonder if this couple does something similar. I hope my parents never stop dancing together and that one day I will stand outside of their house and look through their window and see the same image I see in the apartment a few blocks away.

And of course, it is music monday! Enjoy "Drop Names Not Bombs" by Louise Burns 

xoxo