my body misses dancing, misses movement, misses breathlessness. it
misses the structure and slow motion grace of classical ballet. it
misses the bounce and whip of jazz ballet. it misses the sinuous
stretch and earthy vibrance of bellydance. it misses the silly
sputter of the polka, the hard-to-achieve glide of the waltz, the come
hither strut of the cha cha cha. it even misses the sweat and flail
of an urgent, untutored mass. music is in my spine, tendons, skin.
at my best i walk in a dance, a predatory gash of low;hip;grind. i am
not the prettiest girl in the room, but i can make you look.
sometimes.

this, most of all, is the loss i mourn. it's an old old tale, getting
older every year. so easy to lose, so hard(hard) to replace. i want
my physicality back. i want my joy, my ease, my confidence in
motion. how. i. used. to. be. and the closer i come, the further
away it seems. and on the best days my bones sing, i am going to do
this. i am. and on the worst days it's a secret my blood sings to
itself, a soft sussuration, the grit of the oyster, the patience of
pearl.