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every
little performance . . . She always told me I was the prettiest
little dancer she’d ever seen,” she laughed. Suddenly her eyes filled with
tears and she stopped dancing all together and looked up into my eyes. “She got
very sick,” she whispered. “I was out of high school by then and there was no
one but me to take care of her, so I stopped going to classes. She always said
how much she wanted to see me dance again, that it made her so happy, but I
never did. I was too worried about her.” She swallowed hard, and looked down at
the floor, her body beginning to tremble. A new type of dread filled me as I
realized this conversation had absolutely nothing to do with me. I could barely
hear her when she spoke again, her voice thick with emotion. “She died today.”
    My heart broke for her, and I shared in
the agony, which was displayed plainly before me. “Oh Emilee,” I said
sorrowfully. I drew her into my embrace as she began to sob. She held on to me
like I was the only thing she had left, crying into my chest. It occurred to me
I might actually be the last thing she had left. Eventually, we moved to the
edge of the room where we sat up against the wall. The rest of the night was
spent in silence as we held each other and Emilee cried. I wanted to say
something, anything, that would help her, but I didn’t know what words to use.
I felt helpless as I cradled her against me, her tears soaking my shirt. When
her mind began to pull away from mine I knew she was no more rested than when
she went to sleep.
     
    Emilee looked worn out the next night—in
the same outfit with dark circles under her eyes. She sat next to the same wall
with her eyes closed. I felt the shattering in my chest again.
    I came prepared though. It occurred to
me the night before that I knew next to nothing about her other than she loved
dancing, wanted to see the world, her father was gone, and her mother had died
the day before. Tonight I would try and help her forget the latter, if only for
a little while.
    I walked to her and sat down, wrapping
my arms around her as she cuddled up against me. As soon as we were comfortable
I launched right into my plan.
    “Emilee,” I began, “What was your
favorite thing to do as a child? . . . other than dance that
is.” I waited patiently for her reply, knowing I’d caught her off guard. I
desperately wanted my plan to work. After a few moments she finally responded.
    “I liked to play on the swing set in our
back yard. I would imagine I could fly.” She looked up and smiled at me weakly
while she answered. I smiled as well, knowing that distracting her was a good
idea.
    “And why would you imagine flying?” I
asked curiously.
    “Every kid imagines they can fly, Raith.
I preferred a swing over jumping off the roof like other kids.” I laughed at
her comment and she giggled a little in reply, giving me confidence to
continue.
    “What else did you like to do?” All
night I question her about everything I could think of, helping her to think of
anything but her reality of sorrow. I learned that she had been an honors
student all through school, loved the color blue, and liked to spend her
afternoons reading. Her favorite thing to eat was a good cheeseburger and
fries, and she worked at the library but she really wanted to teach dance for a
living.
    We laughed over her memory of being so
excited to go to her first midnight movie with her friends when she was in high
school. She spent the whole time running around and acting crazy. When the
movie finally started, she was so tired from all of her excitement that she
fell asleep five minutes after it started.
    Each new thing I learned made me love
her more. I wished I could spend every moment with her and see the things from
her waking world. I wanted her forever, no matter what happened. I felt sick as
cold reality slapped me in the face again; this was not real. It was a dream. I
would not be able to keep her forever. Someday she would