Instinct instructs my hips and torso in that room with music and tiny glinting lights. Soft skin on cold hardwood floors. Rhythmical sound summons motion. For two and a half hours I am only a body moving around that group of 40 arms, 50 chins, 60 wrists. Talking is taboo. Only swaying. Only spinning. Only jumping. Only dancing. It’s a glorious window without guilt. A comfy cushion without thoughts of harsh hospital waiting rooms and organ transplants. That musical room is bliss, a wondrous gift, my sanctuary.
At 9 o’clock, it stops. My throat constricts as last bits of music drift out of that gymnasium and my mind finds his portrait. Thoughts start flowing right away. My son is again pulsing through my brain. His lungs working hard. His lips not pink. That vital organ thumping too fast, working so hard. I want his 7th birthday. His 18th birthday. His 21st birthday. I want many classrooms and running and picnics and icy surf tapping our limbs. I want him to study, to obtain a diploma, a family of his own. I want Christmas without IVs. I want clocks to spin and a thousand months to pass. With him.
That still room thins out. I wish for additional hours of savory sounds twisting my hips and arms with anonymous shins and warm limbs. I want dancing again so that I can fully dismiss our truth for a bit, his story—facts that blow wind from my human form and grays my hair. But not today. So I stand and walk to my car and I snap into my world. It blurs my joy as rain soaks into dry sand—thoroughly and wholly.
(Note to reader: With the exception of the title, this piece was written without the letter "E" ... inspired by an assignment for grad school.)