Dancing for Rain

When I first joined Writerscafe.org in 2004 one of the biggest names around was Rain. A retired guy dying of colon cancer, he helped me through one of the roughest times of my life.

“My dear beautiful Nerdette,

“Oops, I forgot to put intelligent and wise! :) I am probably going to leave WC soon. I have said all I wanted to say. It was basically a dairy for my sons to know who their father really was...both good and bad. I met many good-hearted people, many false people, many people here for a hundred different reasons. There are a few I met, I will always cherish meeting. There was something about them. They stood out. There was something unexplainable about my connection with them. They were people who left me with encouragement about the future; colorful personalities that touched me. You are one of those few. Your self-effacing humor, and your inner drive...just so many qualities that were magnetic. Like the Strawman in the Wizard of Oz, ‘I will miss you most.’”

Love,
Rain





This is for Rain:

She picks up her toe, wrapped in worn-down pink silk. The hammer she used on the pointe box is clutched in one fearful hand.
 
It's been years since she danced. Toes once so used to that cramped agony swear at her as she rolls up, stretching into the new shanks of her shoes.
 
"This drought bleeds on and we're dancing for Rain!"
 
The words drown out her pain as she makes muscles remember what it felt like to sing tightly coiled beauty on stage.
 
"Drink the air but it's still not the same!"
 
Choreography is too kind a word for the wild beats of her feet. Blood begins to show through the soft pink silk as she tears through the oldest routines she can remember, back when her days were filled with little else.
 
She's practically blasse now, at 24, but her feet have not forgotten.
 
He is dead. The man who inspired her first words out of the grave. The one who kept her dancing when all was lost. The one who called her Phoenix. Rain. She is dancing for Rain.
 
Too many doctors. Too many house calls. She wants it to stop. She begs it to stop even as she pounds out jetes like air was going out of style, she wishes she could close her eyes to the pain even as she executes perfect piques in pique at the unjust, uncaring cruel world that took him from her.
 
He was 67 years old, Sarah. Terminal cancer. What did you expect?
 
"This heart bleeds on and we're dancing for Rain. You drink the air but it's still not the same!"
 
I did it, Rain. Just like you said. I lived. And I'm dancing for you now. I'm dancing for Rain.