My husband died, she said, and the next day I danced the Tango.
She looked at me with flat, frank eyes.
Tango is rigid yet passionate, she explained. Your mind switches off and your body switches on. Dancers leave their baggage at the door and express the inexpressible through movement.
Two years of cancer. Two years of watching helplessly. Two years contemplating death and aloneness.
I was in another room when he died. I felt his soul kiss me on its way up.
Words are clean. But feelings are messy, life is messy, and death is messy.
So I dance.