Page 6 of Give Me Strength

It’s been five years since I last in the country, and the least I can do is say a few words to my best friend. To the woman who gave up so much of herself for the benefit of others. And just when she had a chance to be happy, it was snatched from her in the blink of an eye.

I take comfort in knowing that at least they died together. If there is an afterlife, I’d like to think they are in it together, blissfully happy and free to be their authentic selves. Free to love each other without repercussion.

It seems I’m not the only one who needs to talk to Rachel.

Ashlynn Crane beat me to it.

My eyes lock onto her slender frame, a lone figure in the dimming light. The bun is gone, and her long brown hair falls loosely over her shoulders. She leans against Rachel’s weathered headstone, her fingers tenderly tracing the words engraved there.

Words I know by heart. After all, I picked them.

Rachel McKenzie.

Beloved Wife and Teacher

Forever worthy. Forever loved. Forever missed.

She speaks softly, her words carried away by the wind before they can reach me. The raw pain in her posture tells a story of loss and longing. She seems at ease in the space, too. I can only imagine the conversations she has with her mother and teacher, the stories, the heartaches, the triumphs.

I know I shouldn’t be here, intruding on such a personal moment, but I can’t tear myself away. My chest tightens with an ache I cannot shake. I want to go to her, to offer some semblance of comfort, but something holds me back.

Rachel holds me back.

I miss her, more than I ever thought I would. Not only was she my best friend, but she was loved and respected by all who knew her. There were times she didn’t think she was worthy of all that, but her loss left behind a void too big to be filled.

Ashlynn’s posture shifts as she pushes off the headstone and stands tall. A familiar grace envelopes her movements, and I recognize the transformation instantly. She’s no longer just a woman in mourning; she’s a ballerina, every inch of her body poised and expressive.

She begins to dance, her arms slicing through the air with a fluidity that speaks of years of practice and a lifetime of pain. Each twirl is a whispered confession, each leap a conversation with her teacher, each precise movement a testament to their unspoken bond. Every movement is a silent scream, every step a tear.

Rachel talked about her technique all the time. She called Ashlynn a true prodigy, that she could be the next Margot Fonteyn. That was high praise in her book. She also talked about how lucky she was to be the one to nurture such raw talent.

Now, I know why.

The hem of Ashlynn’s dress flutters like a delicate curtain in the wind, her feet moving with a precision that speaks of years of discipline and passion. The cool evening breeze plays with the loose strands of her hair as she moves in sync with it, her feet barely touching the ground. It is a grace that seems otherworldly.

A pang of guilt tugs at me for witnessing this private ritual when Rachel can’t, but I’m entranced by Ashlynn’s performance. It’s as if she’s transcending reality, her grief channeled into an ethereal display of beauty and strength. The world around us fades; there’s only her, her ghosts, and the silent dialogue of her dance.

I hear footsteps approaching me, but I keep my eyes on Ashlynn. Nimble fingers curl around my arm, grounding me in this moment.

“That’s her audition piece for Bayard Ballet Conservatory,” Bonnie says softly, her voice barely audible. “She wanted Rachel and Hannah to see it. It’s her way of honoring them, of mourning their loss.”

I can’t tear my eyes away from Ashlynn. She is lost in her own world, a realm where only she and her ghosts exist. The grace of her movements is haunting, a beautiful agony laid bare. My throat tightens, and I have to look away for a moment, the intensity of her sorrow almost too much to bear.

This is a sacred space, a dance of grief and memory that I have no right to intrude upon. A sentiment that Bonnie wastes no time in voicing.

“I know you want to talk to Rachel, but she needs this,” she continues, her voice a mix of empathy and sorrow. “Please, let her have this moment.”

I nod, swallowing hard as words escape me.

“We all grieve in our own ways,” she adds. “For Lynn, it’s through dance.”

Bonnie’s words are a balm and a knife all at once, cutting through my heart but offering comfort. On the other hand, Ashlynn’s dance slows, her arms falling to her sides as she sinks to her knees with her head bowed. Her shoulders shake with silent sobs, and my heart shatters for her.

The moment has passed, so I brace myself for Bonnie to tell me to leave. Instead, her grip tightens on my arm.

“Thank you for coming,” she eventually says, her eyes filled with understanding.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I manage to say. The words feel hollow and inadequate, but it’s all I have.

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