You would’ve liked the woman you saw if you had seen me last night- my skin sun kissed, hips swaying back and forth to the rhythm I learned in the only home I’ve known, to the songs I used to spend hours dancing to alone on the patio on days when the sun shone too hot and there was no one around to talk to.
You would’ve liked the way my mouth molded over the notes, my tongue dancing, vocal chords ringing, my spine standing strong and upright. You would’ve appreciated my small efforts at comedy and human connection sent to the crowd over the twisted microphone wires and afterwards I’m certain you would’ve declared that I had been born for the stage.
You were, after all, my biggest fan.
You would’ve sat right in the first row but you would’ve stood up to dance, even if your feet never did quite learn all the right steps to take.
That’s what you had me for, after all.
You would’ve liked what I have done with this life I realized I took for granted when you died.
Why have I wasted so much time?
I have learned to ask myself the hard questions even if I don’t have answers to so many of them.
What I do know is that it isn’t enough to just breathe and pay the bills and kiss new lips every now and then. Not anymore.
You would be proud of the woman I’ve become.
If you could only see me now.