her silhouette is black against my kitchen doorway. her back, turned.  she’s swaying, head bobbing, to the music on my laptop. i see the outline of the oversized cardigan i leant her when she arrived. it swallows her up, save for tiny white hands which conduct the air, keeping time.

she’s aware of no one. prefers to stand and stare out the window while she dances. no doubt remembering childhood dance lessons. childhood dreams of becoming a professional dancer. picturing herself pirouetting across the lawn in a lavender dress, her mind perfectly whole, her feet completely cooperative. it’s the picture i have of her when i think of heaven.

there, she will remember how to cook. how to walk. how to form sentences. there, she will recall the names of her favourite flowers. the way it feels to drive a car. to bathe herself.

in heaven, my mother will be a beautiful ballerina. inhibited by nothing. propelled onwards by the song only she can hear.