I remember driving up the canyon, picnicking by the creek, dancing in the rain. "Wild, wild horses...we'll ride them some day..."
Your chest tasted like salt and sunlight. You held me with no light between us, said you wanted it that way, made me believe it was eternal. But it vanished like smoke, like sweat, like September rain. Autumn was that afternoon and left with you in the morning.

I dance without music and believe in the illusion of grace. The rhythm of the feet is the rhythm of breath. Respiration in counterpoint to heartbeat. Hands describe birds in flight, stalking animals, rippling waves. Swallow, sparrow, crane, cougar. Sunlight dapples the dance, sweat anoints me, and today at least winter is warm.

On another rainy day, now more than ten years ago, I drove myself to the hospital and wondered how much it mattered that I'd missed more than half the classes. I knew how to breathe. Breathe, breathe. On the radio, Jesus Jones wailed "Right here right now..." Breathe. In movies, women with flawless skin glisten with sweat. They do not grunt; the moan. Husbands with tile-white teeth hold one hand, place another on their wives' slick foreheads. "Breathe, Breathe." I did not sweat; chills shook me. When they laid him on my chest, I cried. I kissed him, tasting salt.