Colleen Conrad

I dreamt we were dancing.

The floor was creaky and unsure.  A life raft on turbulent water.  Your hand rested on the small of my back, and I wished that you would hold me tighter as we glided and stumbled with the music. 

When we found a rhythm it didn’t matter that you weren’t pushing or pulling me as firmly as I’d wanted.  It wasn’t a slow dance, and it wasn’t fast, but we fell into time with each other.  The sky was a painter’s navy blue, peeking at us through low-hanging Oak branches.  We knew it was nearing the end of the night, and that this would be one of the last songs.  We moved without urgency, without agenda, without frenzy or spectacle.  

I don’t know if we spun, or if you twirled me like a top.  Maybe you did, and I don’t remember for the spring air on my face, the creamy glow of Japanese lanterns, and the warm space between our palms. 

When you keep your eye on something steady, the world seems anchored.