Dance With Me
The myth of family becomes so pronounced in late November into January. The vision all Normal Rockwell. A vision that hardly matches my own. My family truth is a faint sheen of dust. It can't be wiped away, but that it will settle back into place again.
If the dust cannot be removed then maybe I can learn to dance barefoot through it. Kicking up motes into the light where it floats around me. Whispered words of old stories I no longer believe. Dust of dead memories made beautiful swirling there among the sunlight and barefeet.
And when I go, the only evidence to future eyes of my having been here will be the Arthur Murray dance steps left on the dusty floor.