She Danced

The day before she died, she danced.
In the center of the old farmhouse kitchen,
in front of aunts and uncles, without hesitation,
with no remorse, she danced.

Her dark shoulder length hair, now dusty wheat,
short and coarse from chemicals meant to
slow the assault of her relentless stalker,
slender legs wrapped in blue tights no
longer tight, steps measured, more tentative,
she danced.

When she smiled the sun came out.
When she looked into my eyes she
warmed something deep.  Speaking,
she sounded like a low pitched melody,
not harsh, not wounded but settled
and serene.

Tired from the dance she rested only
to come back refreshed, to smile joy
back into our lives again.  And then
the day was over and she went home,
deliciously exhausted, bearing new
memories to add to the old.  And she
went to sleep.  

But, the day before she died,
she danced.