Today I snuck home for a bit to teach my dance classes.

I think there is only one word to explain how it felt:


Loud music. Jumping. Laughing. Kids. Moving.

Today I remembered why being alive feels so good.

We also got to work on a piece we are dedicating to Gram. It pretty much sums up, who she was to everyone she knew:

"If no one will listen, if you decide to speak,
If no one is left standing after the bombs explode.
If no one wants to look at you for what you really are,
I will be here still."

We had friends and family here with her during the day. I returned to a quieter, but still beautiful woman. The words are gone, but she breathes next to me, just like she did when she used to let me snuggle in her bed with the electric blanket. 

I am on auto-pilot now. I have to be. I could not survive eight days of continuous racking sobs, and heartbreaking memories. But in many ways, it is still not real. No matter what I know to be rational and true, having her breathing next to me still feels like possibility, like hope. Like maybe not tonight, but sometimes we will watch reruns of the Golden Girls and talk about the time my Christmas Cat escaped.

I tell her goodnight, and I am never sure when it will be the last time.