To the Girl Dancing on the Corner Waiting for the Bus
BY RUTH WILLIAMS
After Ada Limon’s “Downhearted”
Driving to work,
I see you at least once or twice a week.
Slowly swaying, short body in a puffy coat.
You’re stout with braids, maybe nine or ten.
Sometimes spinning,
other times you bob your head,
mouthing music only you can hear.
I’m sorry to write to you this way.
I need your joy, the unselfconsciousness of it. Really,
I need the innocence of it
because bad things are piling up
like too many layers in a sweltering room.
I know you shouldn’t have to give anything.
You’re a child; I’m an adult.
But, if you’re dancing, if you’re spinning,
then you’ll be my vehicle so I can say it.
Last week, my student took her life.
There, that’s the hard part.
Like you, she was small and stout. Wore glasses
that turned dark in the sun. Before class,
she’d turn to me and chat.
She joked she got no sleep,
my assignments were too hard.
We’d laugh. That’s the important part.
In the note she left,
she said she felt loved, but she was too tired.
I think that’s the hardest part.
Her obit said she collected dice
and loved long walks at night. Truth is,
like you, I didn’t really know her.
But I liked her. She was vivid,
and now, I wish she was still alive.
That’s it. That’s the hardest part.
No, that’s not quite true. For you,
my dancing vehicle, I’ll be real.
Adulthood is full of hardest parts.
You keep thinking they’ll stop,
the clouds will part,
but your heart keeps breaking
and the hardest things pile up
like layers of rock you’re underneath
wondering if you can bear up.
I don’t know what to do
except be like you,
spinning and spinning,
a dancing drill bit, chiseling my way
out of the dark. The truth is
that’s the hardest, hardest part.
