dancing at aunt martha's

Looking back, it was strange how
hard it was raining during someone's
birthday. You were six years old and birthdays
and rain did not equate. That afternoon formed something
delirious in your mind that you could not stop
thinking about. Cousin Fredrich was wearing an orange
hat with a feather stuck on it, a sour note. There
were 12 of you then and Aunt Martha, of course, and
Uncle Benedict who kept on blinking
for some reason. You remember that the first game was
pin the tail on the donkey. In your hand, the tail seemed
short and droopy and had no more hair. You
remember feeling sorry for the donkey but
you did not question his fate because the house's walls were lined with love.
Aunt Martha's eyes wove dreams on your white arm.
Putting on a Beatles record, she announced that you had to dance.
You were supposed to know all the steps. You remember making a few
hesitant moves, then a half-hearted shimmy.
I want to tell you that it was only natural for you to pull back.
You spotted an anonymous
boy in the crowd and dragged him to the center of things.
He was just some boy, same age as you were, perhaps. You are not certain now
about any facts regarding him but you remember
the strange roughness of his white shirt. Years after, you find
that you could not change. Always now, someone beside you, refusing the dance.