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THE HESITATION WALTZ
© 2008 Rick Hutchins
She will be there. She must be there.
For seven decades, I have made this trip down these rough, narrow stone stairs to the sea. For seven decades, under each full moon, in the warmth of the summer and the bitter cold of every winter, I have come to her without fail.
Almost without fail.
I am afraid. Did she think me untrue? Did she feel betrayed and abandoned? Will the pattern be broken? Will she no longer be there for me?
It was not even a heart attack, just another episode of angina. If I had been at home, it would have passed without incident. But the store manager insisted on calling the police and I spent the night– our night– in a hospital ward.
Oh, how I love her. I cannot lose her.
My father saw her first, distantly. I read about her in his journal after his death. Two years later, when I returned to take over the family house, I decided to see for myself. And so, in the dead of night, with only the full moon to light my way, I carefully picked my way down the treacherous, ancient steps to the beach.
She was there, standing just above the surf line, staring sadly out to sea, her bobbed hair and slender tea gown suggesting the days of the Great War and the Titanic. Mesmerized, I approached her without fear and held out my hand. She took it in her slim, ethereal fingers and, as if rehearsed, as if by magic, we danced the Hesitation Waltz in the silent night.
So beautiful, my sepia spirit.
Seven decades.
She will be there. She must be there.
Soon I will know her name at last. Soon we will be together for all eternity. Soon I will die in her arms.