The old wall clock proudly struck its four o’clock bongs. With its final resonance fading like a trail of mist the movers departed with the last of our personal belongings. The clock’s wood casing boasts a charming hand-carved basket of fruit while its shimmer of sound echoes my inner sentiments–a soft hum connecting me to everything.

I will miss my vintage clock. For over thirty years she has accompanied me through my life. I can hear her gentle ticking as my younger self is dancing in my living room…

Now – alone in my house I wander the empty rooms. I slowly work my way up the old creaky stairs–as I have done so many times before…

Boxes of photos–a life reduced to images–were condensed to the size of a shoebox while stacks of birthday cards were narrowed down to those I could hold in one hand…

While digging through the last of the attic’s contents I stumbled upon a small package double-tied with string. I hurriedly tore it open anxiously hoping it contained my long-lost news clippings documenting my life as a choreographer…

Faces flushed and glistening with life; they were carried on waves of poetry – words spoken aloud as music. Their teal blue skirts sent ripples through the thick summer air as they twirled and pulled each other across the stage…

Then as a pleasant dream without warning transforms into a nightmare I revisited a memory I had hoped to forget. It was the time of my dance injury–years before my choreography came to life…

Looking out at the dumpster taking root in our driveway spilling over with the contents of our lives I wonder how I managed to get through it. Yet somehow I did–exhausted intact and even excited for a new journey…