A golden glow sinks behind the mighty rock, coloring wispy clouds pink. The turquoise sky deepens to violet. I watch the same way I watched my first ballet. It’s the most beautiful performance I’ve ever seen. And I have to join in. My walking boot came off just for this.
I can’t leap the way I did at Manitou Incline, but a grand jeté doesn’t compare to the grandeur of my surroundings. I slide my heels together and extend my arms so that my fingertips almost touch. I breathe deeply and smile for my audience of One. This is all I’ve ever needed.
The wind brushes cold against my skin, and I let my body sway like treebranches, arms reaching side to side. The simplicity fills me. My motions grow larger. I add a step. A leg lift. A pirouette.
I’m moved by the melody of my heart. My sneakers tap and scuff concrete as I sashay, dip, and twirl. I become an extension of the breeze that first inspired me. My breathing grows heavy to rush out with it. My pulse comes alive.
I’d been afraid dancing again would leave me feeling disappointed, but this is freedom. There’s no choreography. No instructor. No critique.
I’m filled with the joy of putting on my first tutu, or my “tooting dress,” as Mom says I called it. Angel may burp a lot, but I wore tooting dresses professionally.
I laugh. It’s a surprising interruption of the silence, but it floats away as I circle the paved viewing platform. For my finale, I return to center stage, open my arms, and arch back to take in as much of this moment as possible.
I close my eyes, and tears slip out. They draw chilly lines down my cheeks to my chin and even wet my neck. But these are tears of gratitude. When I lost my ability to danceen pointe, I thought all I had left was Wyatt. But God had something so much better planned for me, just as my birthday Scripture promised.
God has given me a future and a hope.
Babies are crying, a toddler keeps pressing his Call button to create a repetitive dinging sound, and the man right in front of me is trying to fit his oversized bag into bin space much too small. Yet I’m unfazed. It’s go-home day, and I’m taking my newfound peace with me.
It’s crazy how much peace comes from finally letting go of what I’d thought I wanted. I’m sad, but I’m also okay.
I hang out casually in the aft galley, watching the commotion with hands in my pockets. While the aft galley once overwhelmed me with its multiple layers of carts and bins, I now enjoy it for the simplicity of boarding as compared to the complexity of working as the forward flightattendant. All the work of serving predeparture drinks, communicating with the gate agent, and tagging oversized bags falls on them.
I mean, I try saying things like, “Sir, that won’t fit there.” But the passenger just looks at me once and continues shoving.
So I chill, waiting for him to admit I’m right. I know some flight attendants prefer to direct luggage the way a cop directs traffic, but it all gets where it’s supposed to go in the end, so there’s no need for added stress.
“Sir, that won’t fit there,” a male voice says. A deep, respectful, and familiar voice.
I can’t see who’s speaking from the other side of our determined passenger, but I’ve got the feeling he’s wearing a black sweater with gold bars on the shoulders. We are, after all, heading to Seattle.
My heart smiles, if that’s a thing.
The passenger finally drops his bag to the ground and turns on me as if it’s my fault. “My suitcase doesn’t fit.”
Ya think? “Come on back here to get out of the way. Once the aisle clears, you can take your bag up front, and we’ll check it for you.”
I scoot to the side and wait for him to squeeze into the galley beside me so I can finally see the man behind him. Just as I thought. Nathan arches one perfect eyebrow.
I throw my hands in the air. It’s good to see him, but it’s also ironic. “Of course you’re on this flight.”
He lifts his suitcase to fit snugly inside the bin space the last passenger had abandoned. “What do you mean by that?”
I lean into the galley entrance. “I visited Half Dome yesterday, and it made me think of you.” Really, he’s the reason I visited in the first place. Though he probably never imagined I would dance the way I did.
He drops his arms and steps closer. His seat must be in this last row too. “You climbed it?” he asks with a lilt of pride in his tone.
“Well, no. They’d taken down the cables for winter.”
“That’s right.”
“But I saw the most incredible sunset from Glacier Point.”
“You’ve had a lot of new experiences this year.” Again, he says this proudly.
My mind replays all that’s happened in the two months since we met. Nathan gave me self-defense lessons, but now I’m serving those same people I’d once thought I’d have to fight. I’ve moved from living out of fear to living out of love—in more ways than one.
But there’s also my new career, new places visited, new friends. And I’d consider Nathan right up there with my roommates.
