I see her dancing. She’s not a girl anymore. She’s a human being. She doesn’t have to answer time’s timeless question: what will you do to deserve your birth? As she smiles across the ages she surpasses it all. There is no sunset, no prehistory, no art, no love, no poetry. Only her and what she will be.
Everything is yet to happen to her. She will love many, she will be hurt, she’ll know war, know hate, her skin burned and cut, she will dance like she dances now, she will give up her body to love and to oppression. And she will die. Without suffering, but like everything else, she will die.
But none of that matters as I watch her. She is not alone. Many dance around her like debris around a star. But to hell with them. They don’t know what this means. The dancing. The smiles. The happiness. It is to them what rain is to a rainforest. Or death to the condemned. But for her: yes, only she matters.
And she looks over to me. For a split-second I share in her happiness. I am a single frame in her pixilated fate. She won’t remember me and that’s the way it has to be. She’ll forget me like she’ll forget this unforgettable moment. The song as well, damn it to the pits. Bugger it. Everything will be forgotten. Yet, as I watch her now, I feel as everything else feels: immortal.
The music crescendos. She sings along loud and soft. Her voice silences history, just for a moment, just for a moment. I rise too. The music, her voice, her dancing like a flood that freshens and suffocates. I choke. I’m fresh, the heat doesn’t touch me, nothing, not-a-thing, nothing. It can’t. Nothing else matters to me. Her happiness is somehow enough for it all.
She’s a spell-caster. A child of myth. I can never know her better than I know her now. And though somehow I want more, it’s also all I need. To have known this excruciating happiness of hers will do. It’s not about believing in anything. Or being hopeful. It’s just about looking at her now and never forgetting. At this moment’s end everything will change. Me, her, every single atom of life. But there is something that will remain. This song. That voice. That smiling dance. The olive skin and bopping pony-tail. The eyes forced closed by beaming dimples. Just this. Ad eternum. And when this memory fades the true forgetting begins.