It was utterly gloomy here this morning. When I first woke, in my leaden lower body I remembered Grandmother. She lurched slightly as she walked, her bowed legs, which eventually gave at the knees, wrapped in a kilt or wool skirt. She loved to walk in the woods, stop and watch the birds which she knew well––all their names, male and female colors, and their songs. Her lower body, to my child-eyes, was a vast, tipless pyramid. I never saw her thighs. Ever. Not in pants. Not in a swimsuit. Not naked by chance. This morning my legs felt like that.

Then I slept. Sleep, like rain, melts away the crusty points of pain. I repeatedly forget that sleep is not only about psychic rest but also about mending torn bits. My legs are back again with all their distinctions.

I will performing a dance dedicated to grandmothers this Mother’s Day as part of Echo’s Mother’s Day Celebration in NYC. So perhaps this sleep gathered my own Grandmother to me. Or let her out of me.

My dance will heal me. It will. It does.