She played alone with the scratchy wool blanket she dragged from the bed
and into the sitting room, where the sun shone brightly through the large
window, making everything in the room glow with just a tinge of gold. She was
alone and didn't have anyone to play with. Her mother rested on the bed in the
room down the hall, a victim of depression. There was no thought about what a little
girl might be awake and alone in an otherwise empty house.
She had her imagination, an imagination beyond her simple years. Invented
friends and fanciful thoughts became her reality and ...
She danced with God, she was sure.
He looked like all the pictures on the walls in the church her father
brought her to every week. He wore a long robe, and his feet were bare. His hair
was as white as snow. An old man, his smile not unlike her father's, and she
brought him to life, and they danced.
He spun her like a ballerina, graceful and light; he held her, made her safe, and let her rest in his
arms. She believed she danced with God and could still feel his touch, yet even at
her tender age, she knew not to share this with anyone. This was her delight to keep.
She didn't want it to end, but as a light pain traveled through her head,
she felt sleep come. She rested on the blanket, watching God as he watched her
until her eyes fluttered shut. When she woke, he was gone, but the memory stayed, and she felt special.
And through the years, she knew he was always there, watching. She could
mark when she knew he was shining light on her, and her vivid memories
of that morning stayed strong.
Now an old woman, she relives the dance in the quiet of her mind, alone
again. She watched the sun fill the space; she always loved the gracefulness of a sunlit room. There is a tinge of gold, and she knows her dance with God is
real, she is sure.
And then they danced.
©Copyright 2014 Whiskey Tales. All
Rights Reserved.
Bad Country: A Novel by CB McKenzie
