Shall We Dance?

My son faces a fearful journey, one he might not survive,
moving to the brink of death in search of new life.
Fear, like a rock, takes up residence in the pit of my stomach.

I long for that rock to be transformed—into what?
Hope? Peace?
A calm assurance that all will be well?

Sometimes I reject that rock,
pretend that I don’t see it, don’t feel its weight.
I tell it, “You can go now.”

And it seems to—for a while,
but it returns, and I run to the nearest distraction,
so it grows legs and chases after me.

Sometimes I turn and face it,
sit down with it, hold it,
embrace it as well as I can.

It seems a little lighter then,
a little less oppressive.
It’s still there, but less the center of my life.

We’ve done this dance many times, my fear and I.
We’ll do it many times again, I’m sure.
I wouldn’t have chosen this dance partner—if I had a choice.

But he comes and he asks me to dance.
I escape to the ladies’ room.
He’s waiting when I come out.

“I’m too tired to dance,” I say.
“Then let’s sit and talk,” he responds.
I no longer have the energy to resist, so I get up and dance once more.