Frantically studying for the most important test of my life, my books and assignments encircled my laptop, disorganized on my bed. My half of the dorm room represented my scattered brain. I dropped back on my pillow heaving in frustration, overwhelmed from studying for the MCAT coming in two weeks. Rotating my head sideways, I reached to my nightstand and grabbed the old, gold-encrusted frame. I slid my legs off the bed, sitting on the edge, staring at the woman in the frame. A single tear escaped my eyelids, cascaded down my cheek and landed on the glass.

Two months had passed since the woman behind the glass had been laid to rest. Lovingly, I caressed the picture frame. The tears began to fall effortlessly down my face. I curled myself up in a ball, cradling the picture frame like a baby. She’s the reason I’m here right now. I could have never gotten this far without her. I mean I’m studying so hard because I have to do this…for her. I need to…

The door opened, interrupting my thoughts. My roommate, Jess, rushed to my side when she realized I was crying. “Shh—s hh…”she whispered in my ear. She knelt in front of me, looking into my water-filled eyes. Jess sorted my study materials and laptop and encircled me in her arms, soothing me.

“I think you should go to the cemetery,” she said, ever so softly.

“I’m fine,” I asserted, weakly.

Jess laughed. It had the power usually to make me laugh as well, but it only coaxed a small smile. “No,” she said. “You’re not.” The two of us sat in a grieving silence. Jess uttered soothing comfort sounds in my ear, calming me just slightly. After a period of time, Jess squeezed me, stared at the photo, and said, “Remember the dance.”

Gazing up, a chill ransacked my body. “Mommy,” I breathed, still haunted by those very words my mother had left me with.


Peddling as fast as my chubby five-year-old legs could take me, I worked to balance my pink bicycle in the blacktop-gravel alleyway. I managed to go halfway before I fell hard on my knees. My mother knelt down beside me and wiped away the little tears forming in my hugely-shocked brown eyes. Looking up at my mother, I asked, “Mommy, why’d you let me fall?”

Wisdom smiling though, she responded, “Because I had to. You have to learn the dance on your own. I can’t help you.”

My little tear-streaked face twisted with confusion. “What does that mean?”

“If you remember, one day, you will understand.”



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*

Curls cascaded along my collarbone, freshly steamed for a new beginning. I stood staring into the mirror lined with picture I’d taken at every dance I’d attended. My mom clasped her hands on my shoulders looking at all the pictures, then into my eyes, a single tear falling.

“You’ve always been my little dancer,” she recalled sadly.

A funny look crossed my face. “But I’ve never danced, Mom.”

She smiled that smile that let me know I’d someday understand her confusing logic. “I know.” She picked up my golden gown and held it up for me to slip into. I turned to go to make it to the ceremony, but she stopped me. “Savior this last dance, before a new one begins.”

Kidding, I haughtily complained, “Will you tell me what this “dance” business is about?”

Again, my mother smiled. Shrugging, she nonchalantly said, “No. Only you can answer that question.”



*


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*

Attending my very first college formal as a senior, I knew represented my nonexistent social life, or my determined academic life. My dancing left little for anyone to desire, but I didn’t care how horrible my dancing was, I was enjoying the dance. The night seemed to last forever.

Around eleven, I relieved myself with a needed break, and took the time to check my phone messages. My phone lit up revealing several voice mails from my mother. I panicked, usually she left a message, and I’d get back to her within a few minutes. Listening to her messages, they became gradually intense from the original message.

“Mom, are you okay?” I asked after two rings, music continuing for the dance inside.

Emotion creeping into her voice, she responded, “As well as I can be. This dance is almost over for me, but I can feel another coming.”

“What are you talking about?” I had to yell over the increasing volume of the music.

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry, I forgot your dance was tonight.”

“It’s okay,” I said, urgently. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, it’s not important. Go. Enjoy the dance. Make memories and have fun.”

We said our goodbyes and hung up the phones. I continued to stare at mine long after I’d disconnected the call, trying to make sense of what my mother had been talking about. The dance was almost over for her? The more I thought about it, the more confused I became.

One of my favorite songs blared through the speakers, so I really didn’t give it much more thought. I headed off back into the dance.



*


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*

I walked into the room; it was so quiet I could’ve heard a pin drop, the atmosphere so heavy, I felt it. The room filled with sad faces, each understanding what was happening, each knowing this was the last day we would see the woman quietly resting on the bed. Family turned when I came in, and Mom opened her eyes, beckoning me over to her.

Slowly, almost in a trance, I walked over to her. As I sat beside her, she raised her arm to caress my cheek. Tears began to fall down my check. One by one, she wiped away the tears as they fell.

“Why are you crying?” she asked, true wonder in her voice.

Disbelief in my voice, I strained, “Why am I crying? You’re dying, Mom.” As I broke down, my mother moved over on the bed to let my lay beside her.

Stroking a piece of hair behind my ear, she said, “Now I want to listen to me: The dance is just beginning. You don’t need me to show you how to move your feet anymore.” Too broken up to comprehend it all, all I could do was nod. “Even if it’s by yourself, get up and dance. Always dance. It may not look perfect, but it’s your dance.”

I curled up next to my mom, and she held me, whispering things about dancing and making calm circular movements with her fingers on my back. “Remember to dance,” she managed to whisper before she elapsed into her eternal slumber.

Two months had passed, and I hadn’t been back since the funeral. The grass was damp and most of the other stones had flowers already on them. My mother’s was the only barren
one. Going back to the cemetery wasn’t something I’d ever felt comfortable doing, but Jess was right I had needed this. Somehow I needed to find closure, and figure out what my mom had been trying to tell me for all those years.

I stood at the foot of her tombstone, trying to piece together all the questions I had, for her, for God. I wanted to know why. Why it had to happen to her. But the question that haunted me most was the one I had always asked her, but had never received an answer to. What was the meaning of the dance?

Looking at her stone, I thought that maybe I would find the answer there, maybe it would be clearly etched between her name and the dates. But it wasn’t. It was just a name and some dates. The stone didn’t reveal how she had died, or more importantly how she had lived. All it said was her name and date she was born and the date she died. It really meant nothing. It was just a stone. I sat below her stone and thought, There was so much of her. Her spirit was everyone, and all she has to show for it is this stone. But as I sat there thinking something occurred to me. Neither her young age nor the dates mattered. It was the symbol between the dates that mattered. Every stone has one, and they’re all the same, at least in appearance. The symbol was different for everyone. I drew to my feet, turned on my heel and headed back to my car, finally understanding what my mother had meant. I was off to live and enjoy the dance.