A Midnight Dance

by Joanna Davidson Politano

“I’m curious, then, what makes you call yourself a dancer?” I looked at him solemnly, chin edging up. “Is art only validated by the presence of an audience?” His eyebrows shot up, eyes flashing, and I knew I’d won his admiration—and that I was in trouble.

One day we’ll be dancing together on that stage. I vow it.

“Why do you poke at me so with your questions? What are you up to, besides antagonizing me at every turn?” Those prism blue eyes centered on my face. “Do you ever grow tired? Of swinging that cumbersome sword around that’s too heavy for you?

“Does belonging to God mean I have to give up my dreams?” I’d asked this once of Mama when I was small—maybe seven or eight—and it had nearly broken my heart to even voice it. “No, little one,” she’d answered. “But it means you’d best be wholly willing to.”

“I consider you one of my very favorite friends.”

Then, while he still watched me, I felt something slide into my right hand. “What I want . . . is for you to fly.”

I looked down into my hands and saw a luscious pair of ivory satin slippers.

“I promised you we’d dance together on this stage one day. I don’t keep a lot of things, but I keep my promises, love.”