Don't Ask Me to Dance.
I dimmed the lights, a cue to gather close to the parquet floor. I signaled the DJ who turned up the romance for the newlyweds as they walked on, hand in hand. The party really began then, and I left it in the dark of that ballroom, busying about keeping my thoughts at bay as I marched and worked tables.
I'm not sure how many times I had to say 'no thank you,' to the well-meaning invitations. I did not count as I smiled politely and declined to join them in the crowd as the music swelled. I kept a distant eye on the gathering of swaying hips and arms swinging over heads. It was not going to be my scene. I know I've been caught many a time, kicking up my heels and singing along, letting a fun and carefree night of celebration take me away from myself, but not this time.
I had to be stern more than once, set my lips and shake my head, keeping my shoulders square to only manage the tasks at hand, not allowing persuasion to drag me from duty. Perhaps it seemed as though I was being a pill, a micro-manager who should take a breath and take a seat. I know I heard a couple say, "Enjoy yourself, you've done enough." It isn't that I didn't hear. It isn't that I wouldn't have loved to join in.
But thoughts just roll through me when I'm trying to let loose, faster than I can process them sometimes, and always faster than I can stop them. So it needed to be said, Please don't ask me to dance. Don't ask me to get cheek to cheek with my dearest husband, the father of my son, and try my best not to remember the last time I dance with him at a wedding, our baby popping out my belly button and pressing between us in my silk maternity dress. Don't ask me to twirl my darling daughters and not recall the New Year's eve we celebrated at home, mere weeks before I lost their brother, watching them twirl about in fancy party wear and silly hats.
Don't ask me to circle up next to that beautiful bride, her own cheeks flushed with the gaiety of the night and the new life blossoming inside her. Don't ask me to stand in line, to give my dollar and two cents to the happiest of grooms, hoping I can only speak well-wishes for the rest of their lives and never condolences.
Don't ask me to watch a mother with her son, seeing her mouth the words to a favorite song, catching the depth of her love and longing to have those moments for myself.
It's too much to ask of me when you ask me to dance. It should be a simple request, a frame of arms and a strong partner leading me about, controlling the direction of my body and whisking my mind to make new memories of a great time. It should be all laughter and shouting along, the music drowning out the off-key warbling and misspoken lyrics. It should be easy, footloose and fancy-free, the weight of the world nowhere close to the dance floor.
So I could not dance. My body might have been willing, but my mind was weak. Eventually I know I tried, guilted into a song or two, but my feet were lead. I could barely allow myself to be led about and my spirit wasn't in it. I felt my thoughts wander, wavering ever so slightly from the night's agenda into Grief, and I left the floor quickly. It was no place for me, no occasion for tears of regret or sadness, and I marched on- purposeful again, back in action and all business.
I pulled flowers from vases and tied them with bows, pressed them into hands of departing children and smiling women. I folded table linens and rounded up tulle, stashing it away for another day, for another future event yet to be determined. I snapped candid shots of rambunctious groomsmen and videoed a few rare moments to be shared and mocked another day. Thoroughly tuckered out, I gathered my precious flower girl and my husband, the stragglers of my family that patiently waited for me to declare my job completed. Into the dark and rainy night we slipped, to find comfy pajamas and an empty bed, to put to sleep those rampant thoughts running through my head.
I'm not sure how many times I had to say 'no thank you,' to the well-meaning invitations. I did not count as I smiled politely and declined to join them in the crowd as the music swelled. I kept a distant eye on the gathering of swaying hips and arms swinging over heads. It was not going to be my scene. I know I've been caught many a time, kicking up my heels and singing along, letting a fun and carefree night of celebration take me away from myself, but not this time.
I had to be stern more than once, set my lips and shake my head, keeping my shoulders square to only manage the tasks at hand, not allowing persuasion to drag me from duty. Perhaps it seemed as though I was being a pill, a micro-manager who should take a breath and take a seat. I know I heard a couple say, "Enjoy yourself, you've done enough." It isn't that I didn't hear. It isn't that I wouldn't have loved to join in.
But thoughts just roll through me when I'm trying to let loose, faster than I can process them sometimes, and always faster than I can stop them. So it needed to be said, Please don't ask me to dance. Don't ask me to get cheek to cheek with my dearest husband, the father of my son, and try my best not to remember the last time I dance with him at a wedding, our baby popping out my belly button and pressing between us in my silk maternity dress. Don't ask me to twirl my darling daughters and not recall the New Year's eve we celebrated at home, mere weeks before I lost their brother, watching them twirl about in fancy party wear and silly hats.
Don't ask me to circle up next to that beautiful bride, her own cheeks flushed with the gaiety of the night and the new life blossoming inside her. Don't ask me to stand in line, to give my dollar and two cents to the happiest of grooms, hoping I can only speak well-wishes for the rest of their lives and never condolences.
Don't ask me to watch a mother with her son, seeing her mouth the words to a favorite song, catching the depth of her love and longing to have those moments for myself.
It's too much to ask of me when you ask me to dance. It should be a simple request, a frame of arms and a strong partner leading me about, controlling the direction of my body and whisking my mind to make new memories of a great time. It should be all laughter and shouting along, the music drowning out the off-key warbling and misspoken lyrics. It should be easy, footloose and fancy-free, the weight of the world nowhere close to the dance floor.
So I could not dance. My body might have been willing, but my mind was weak. Eventually I know I tried, guilted into a song or two, but my feet were lead. I could barely allow myself to be led about and my spirit wasn't in it. I felt my thoughts wander, wavering ever so slightly from the night's agenda into Grief, and I left the floor quickly. It was no place for me, no occasion for tears of regret or sadness, and I marched on- purposeful again, back in action and all business.
I pulled flowers from vases and tied them with bows, pressed them into hands of departing children and smiling women. I folded table linens and rounded up tulle, stashing it away for another day, for another future event yet to be determined. I snapped candid shots of rambunctious groomsmen and videoed a few rare moments to be shared and mocked another day. Thoroughly tuckered out, I gathered my precious flower girl and my husband, the stragglers of my family that patiently waited for me to declare my job completed. Into the dark and rainy night we slipped, to find comfy pajamas and an empty bed, to put to sleep those rampant thoughts running through my head.
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