Dancing With Memories

         Oh, Andy...how can I ever tell you how much you are missed?

         The cool water of the river flowed over my feet, washing away the coating of summer dust.  We had run through these fields as children, Andy and I, soaking in the warmth of the sun, searching for the first tassels to appear on the corn stalks.  We'd race to the big rock where Papa had told us stories by the light of the fireflies, then turn and head to the river, where we'd lie back on the grassy bank, panting as we watched the clouds drift by.

         The river overflowed its banks the spring that Papa died; Andy and I said it was because we had cried so many tears for him.  We were teenagers by then, but we missed him terribly.  We held hands as we walked to the big rock and retold his stories.  The next day we danced on the river bank, imagining Papa sitting against his favorite tree, watching us and laughing as he had so many times before.

         A few months after Papa died, the house and fields were sold and Andy and I never went down to the river again.  Sixteen years have passed since then and once more, the river is pouring out over its banks; this time flooded with my tears for Andy.  A terrible car wreck had claimed him and for the first time in my life I was alone. 

         Perhaps I shouldn't have come, I think to myself.  With a last look at the swollen river I turn back toward the field.  My tear-filled eyes try to focus as I walk between the corn rows, but it's no use.  Halfway between the river and the big rock I slump to the ground, weeping at the feet of the old scarecrow, now beaten and raggedy from years of endless watching.  Pulling the old family photograph from my purse, I look into the eyes of my brother, searching for the strength to continue.   

          As my sobs subside, I look up at the scarecrow.  "May I have this dance?" I ask with a curtsy. 

         Reaching up, I remove the scarecrow from his rusty nail and waltz with him in the clearing around the pole.  Opening my eyes, I see Andy's face instead of the stuffed burlap sack; I look into Andy's hazel eyes instead of the dull brown coat buttons.  Comforted by the familiar face in my imagination, the waltz continues until I feel a tap on my shoulder.

          "Do you mind if I cut in," asks a rugged voice touched with confusion. 

         Startled, I turn my tear-stained face to look at the stranger.  "I... I... I guess you wonder what I'm doing here," I manage to stammer.  The stranger's soft blue eyes hold my gaze and then transfer to the scarecrow.  "You must think I'm crazy."

         "No, but I'm still waiting for my dance," he replies, smoothing his sandy hair and extending his arm as a gentleman. 

         Propping the scarecrow against the pole, I check my posture, straighten my shoulders, and smile as best I can.  "I would be honored to share this dance with you, sir."

         The stranger looks into my eyes, enfolds me in his embrace, and leads me effortlessly through the field in a graceful minuet.  As the tempo slows, I chance to look up into his face; a sad melancholy covers his handsome countenance, a single tear escaping his closed eyes and meandering down his suntanned cheek.

         The stranger bows politely to my curtsy.  "Do you come here often?"

          "I used to," I answer, uncertain how much I should say.

          "Will you come again?" he asks with genuine interest.

          "I... I..."

          "I hope you will," he replies softly, gazing into my eyes.  A gentle breeze whispers past my ear and on it, a familiar tone conveys a message.

          "I will come again," I reply with newfound boldness.  "If... if you want me to, that is."

          "Very much so," he answers, leaving me both breathless and speechless.  Taking a step back he prepares to leave but stops for a moment.  "Tomorrow?" he asks.

          "Oh yes," I sigh, catching my breath.  "I can be here tomorrow."

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