Dancing is supposed to be an impossible thing. The trained finesse, soaring, rhythms so easily woven around the lyrics. The catching beat, graceful legs, emotion, a pirouette, and a walk across the stage. Anything that beautiful is surely impossible, but yet, they still jump and leap and twirl. You will see in time because change tends to happen, and then again, so does life.
The simple gifts,
Fairy dust and rainbows,
Teas clinking in the silence,
Beauties of the sunset.
Dancing in the moonlight,
Wishing it could last forever.
And life couldn’t be more magical.
For some reason, on that day, you will want to pull back the shades. They will take a while to open, be pushed around on the slim metal which they glide on. It won’t be surprising, because you haven’t opened them for at least three years. You never believed in magic, so you’ll yawn at the mirror instead of fighting back the mop of crazy curls you call hair. The light will comfort you though, a steady stream of that July morning sunlight.
Sunlight. Maybe...you’ll take a walk around the park today, shove it into the massive schedule which has always decorated your plain room. The walls-the color, rather-will never change from a monotone gray. Your schedule, mostly littered with junk. Clean your room. Do the laundry. Even though you’ve always shoved clothes randomly into drawers, cleaned your room every day. The schedule itself has been crumpled and rewritten, over and over, a never-ending cycle. You will stare at it, the disgruntled, ugly thing-and crumple it again, carefully placing it by your door. Then, you’ll step outside in the fresh morning air which will only be the slightest bit muggy.
For a second, your thoughts will seem in control. For a second, only thinking about the sunlight and the beautiful weather is satisfactory. You will wish you had more seconds like this. Bang! The thoughts will push aside regular pleasantries like a shock. Bang! Bang! The keys-you will dig for them in your pocket, remembering the one time you forgot them inside and had to call for a mechanic. Not understanding; you never liked not understanding. But everyone will be looking up-not at you as you’ll fumble for the keys you already know you have.
As the soft metal presses into your skin and you step outside to join the crowd in a jog around the park, you’ll look up too. July heat will cause sweat to prickle up your spine, the cold shower of flurries raining from the sky somewhat relaxing. Flurries? Impossible. You will be thinking about summer, and how summer means heat, not snow. Weather has laws, rules to follow, just like you think it should be.
But the flurries, they melt in your palm, the air turning frigid, snow beating down harder, wind whipping the trees into awkward, bent positions.
“How do I know it’s real?” You’ll scream into the sky. Everyone will be gone by now, watching from their windows, looking to the skies as the flurries come down. Nobody will respond, as usual. Things regarding other people usually didn’t go your way, and maybe that’s because you never tried to believe in it.
“Is it real?!” You’ll shout again, not caring if the skies pouring down snow beats down on you unforgivingly. The sun and snow is proof, and you’ll want to believe in magic-in impossible things-but the thoughts will keep banging. Clashing cymbals back and forth, back and forth.
“If what’s real? The weather, you mean?”
Someone stands next to you. Someone will stand next to you and hold your hand, and you will like the feeling of somebody’s hand entwined in your own.
“Yes, in a way.” You’ll whisper, but the somebody won’t need to strain over the whistling wind.
“It’s kind of like a magical miracle, huh.” The somebody’s hand will feel oddly warm and real like a magical miracle, too.
Smudge, on the only window,
Your window. Wet washcloth,
Dampening the cool glass.
Another blob oozing out onto the first smudge,
Soon, your hands raw and bleeding,
The window nothing more than,
Some dirty glass.
Inside your house, you’ll count to ten, eyes closed, and then open the window again to see snow still falling, sticking to the road, the July weather instantly transforming into snow and cold. A magical sort of miracle. Somehow, your new thought spirals will lead you to the very notion, the very meaning of existence. You’ll stand aside from your body, the snow, the brightening sun, and remember feeling.
It wouldn’t be right to say you didn’t feel. Maybe you didn’t believe in the emotion, the feeling. This emotion- you will think about it again and again until you decide to stand up, fists clenched. Another small mirror that had always been propped against the hallway will catch your attention, and you’ll notice that your face has turned a deep shade of red. Does feeling include color changes? You’ll try to figure out the answer, pinching yourself until your skin has turned into a dull numb patchwork that holds you together.
The mirror will have to be smashed tomorrow, but the snow will continue on today. How do you know that your life isn’t a deck of wild cards, with another person’s hand concealing the deck. What if emotion is a weakness? Then, why is it viewed as a strength?
Suddenly, something will catch your attention and you’ll move to the window again, transfixed by a tall tree outside your house, three birds-three baby birds-released into the void of open air, learning to fly. Your heart will thump faster, then faster as they drop into the frenzy of rampant snow and dangerous kids tromping in the snow-covered field.
And then, the baby birds will fly, imperfectly, back up the tree to greet their mother in the air, and you’ll feel yourself exhaling, releasing a breath you hadn’t known you’d been holding. This...this...this was feeling.
The seasons, they will change,
Like the constant motions of the tide,
Seashells which litter the shore,
Life’s residents and when they move out,
And humans themselves,
We all change, like ever occasion or so,
It takes over the wheel and spins it into a new situation
The snow will eventually cease to a somewhat partly sunny sky. Magic, maybe? You’ll think to yourself as you pull on a coat and observe the white blanket over the Earth. It won’t be enough for a snowman, but it’ll do for a snow angel. One day, you’ll imagine; as you fall into the snow, spreading your arms back and forth. One day, this will end. The sun will come out and the snow will melt and it’ll be over.
Some kids will be aiming snowballs at the postman, scrambling in the shadows to control their laughter as the snow soars onto his jacket. You won’t find it funny, but the damage will already be done, and you’ll think the kids will never learn. Change...was that necessarily a good thing? Would change spin the wheel for every hater to...change?
You’ll get up, out of the snow, and observe the snow angel. It will be missing a halo.
“Hello, again!” The somebody will startle you, causing you to fall back into the snow. People didn’t surprise you-or came to say ‘hello’, so you two will stare at each other, the somebody; her hair flying out in all directions under a small hat.
“Remember, earlier this morning? You were talking to me about; about; you know, things that are real?” The girl somebody will help you to your feet, then sidestep away, awkwardly gesturing to random piles of snow and laughing. “Sorry, um, I know I haven’t seen you around town much, but maybe you’re new or something...so, yeah, um, hi?”
Without thinking, you’ll take a clump of snow and lob it at her, just to make sure.
“What-what was that for!?” She’ll squeal, more baffled than angry.
“I’m making sure you’re real.”
The girl will pause, then tackle you onto the snow, slamming into you with force, laughing. “Haha, sorry.” She’ll dust off her jacket and sigh, grinning happily. “Now that you know I’m real, will you meet me at the new cafe across town? It’s hard to miss-the billboard is practically waving at you!”
You’ll lie there in the snow for a while, nodding your head up and down, up and down, watching the girl skip down the street. Nobody has ever asked you to go somewhere with them, or even noticed you were there. You will start smiling, and keeping an eye out for the girl once you finally find the cafe. It will be nice, and you’ll laugh more than once. Perhaps, you will imagine a world for today, that change spins into a new thing.
“Call me, tomorrow!”
You’ll turn, wave goodbye, and before leaving, throw a snowball at her. “I’m glad you’re real.”
“Um, me too. And you missed, by the way. You missed by a mile.” Somehow, that won’t bother you at all, and instead, you’ll let her throw a snowball at your back, the soft snow comforting you.
“Endorphins make people happy, or relieve stress!” You’ll shout to the sky, hoping for an explanation of the feelings, and change. But there won’t be any, and you’ll be fine with that. Sometimes, you had to let change take the wheel, and it won’t be such a bad thing.
I told you already; there isn’t any wind, so the kite won’t be able to fly!
What if the wind picks up soon, like, like magic! You saw the snow today Ezikel.
Yes, that was a rare occurrence, but what does that have to do with your kite? It won’t work. Put it away Tomas.
I won’t! I’ve been building this all day!
Magic isn’t real.
“I believe in magic.” You’ll appear out of nowhere, having overheard the conversation from your front porch. The two brothers will jump in surprise, eyeing you warily.
“Well, it isn’t real.” Ezekiel will point to the sagging kite and shrug his shoulders. “I thought all adults knew that.” Tomas will hold the kite out to you and smile, revealing a wide gap between his front two teeth.
“The snow was a sign, wasn’t it?” You’ll smile back and take the kite.
“It was a magical kind of miracle. Did you know that I can make this fly? You just have to believe change is possible. And believe in your feelings and magic too.” Ezekiel will sigh, then point to the kite in your arms.
“If it makes him happy, then sure. But I don’t think…” He’ll trail off as a sudden breeze rustles the trees. Your eyes will also widen, but of happiness, not doubt. It worked. Tomas will fling the kite into the air and watch it glide perfectly in this newfound breeze, Ezikel scouting around the perimeter.
“There has to be some sort of logical explanation! Did you put a fan anywhere nearby or something?”
The kite will be soaring by now, almost dancing in that perfect, graceful way. It was supposed to be impossible, but the kite won’t stop dancing, even as the breeze slows and leaves skirt up into a whirlwind of joy. Tomas and Ezikel will stop and watch, and you’ll smile again.
“But-how-what?” You’ll place a hand on their shoulders, staring off into the distance.
“Believe in it, and who knows what gifts will come out of their hiding. Love every moment of the miracles.”
Believer of magic,
Tales, stories, and fantasy lands.
Good souls and feelings,
Beauties of not understanding,
Philosophy. Science and art and fact and fiction,
Believer of friends,
Hope and cliches,
And the simple gifted miracles.