At middle school dances, there is sometimes an unscripted moment that makes the awkward years worthwhile.

Without command or choreography, the scared and scattered youth form a circle around one of their own.

Instead of becoming afraid, the tween at the center becomes a dancer.

The brave one calls another. Soon, friends and strangers are taking turns, showing off their best moves. They are leaping, boogieing, and throwing their arms in the air as if they really do care. Everyone is cheering them on.

Five minutes ago, they would not have had the courage. But cliques and coolness have melted down, and the whole seventh grade is one golden ring.

They clap for the lanky and the lumpy. It is safe to care about each other.

For the length of a song (usually something profound, e.g., “Mr. Boombastic”), everyone is beautiful.

This is how I picture the circle of cats we can no longer see.

We are still down here, spinning and stumbling in the gymnasium, as wobbly as fawns and out of rhythm. Our backpacks groan with bad news or old hurts.

At age twelve or eighty, we have not grown into these bodies yet.

But from just a few floor tiles away, our friends enfold us.

There are no gaps in the circle, no bored and wandering eyes. They are cheering for us, bearing witness every time we dare to dance.

Lola is there, proud and protective. She sees when we uncross our arms to bare our soft hearts. She whoops when we kneel to feed a face that may hiss back. She has not left us. She is as close as she ever was. If we dance right up to the veil, we may feel a white whisker brush our wrist.

Dewie is there, too, bawdy with delight. He always knew we could dance. He chants our names when we “don’t have time” to play with kittens, but we make time anyway. He yowls his approval when we yield our laps to cats whose afternoons are open, even though ours were not.

Puff claps quietly. Her eyes are votive candles. She knows it has been hard to dance since she slipped out of sight. She knows that grief expands and contracts, like the heart that keeps us alive without our assistance. She is still here. She will not miss our big and little moments.

Tiny Tinker is here, as triumphant as any toddler. He passed away too young to understand the lines that big kids draw. He chirps and trills for the hesitant and the hokey, the dreamers and dorks in last year’s dungarees.

He is small enough to believe this is his circle, which means no one stands outside. We could not keep him in our arms, but we cannot stop him from staying by our side.

They are all part of the great star-cluster of souls, the ring of light that we wear when all seems dark.

We miss them more than we can bear, so they bear us on the beams of memory. They are invested in our lives, and inseparable from our hearts.

Someday, there will be a moment that makes all the grieving years worthwhile.

At last, every one of us will become a dancer.

More Blog Posts