He observed himself in the mirror and took notice of the old familiar scar under his left eye. The mark seemed to be fading. With that thought he felt a slight pain from inside his mouth, reminding him to book a dentist appointment, which he had been putting off for the past weeks, excused by his work demands.                                        

His gaze turned to his own eyes, which were still heavy, needing a few more hours in bed. He had a great time over the weekend but may have overdone it, which was taking a big toll on him at that very moment. Looking at the clock in his room, he read the time. “Already late”, he thought to himself. It was the first day of his Creative Writing class, and he ought to be on time.                                              

Oh, how I wish I was of old age. 

As an elderly, my body would be fragile,

Like a twig in a forest that snaps under a hikers footstep

My hands would waver, 

Like leaves blown by the wind

And I would spend most of my days 

moving at my on pace,

like a gentle stream going towards the sea

That change in physicality would be welcomed

As there are few expectations of a person

who resembles the intricate texture of an ancient tree trunk 

For me, old people are these fearless, filterless, fantastical beings.

In their world, there are no clocks to watch, no calendars to check

Nothing left to do, but a slow stroll from place to place

Cause what does one do, 

when there are no demands,

When the world does not reach for a contribution,

When the future has already been settled long ago.

In my elderly years, I will have already gone through 

the moments that will shatter my heart,

And the ones that will help me glue it back piece by piece

I won’t have any feverish, frivolous questions 

echoing through my head: 

What am I gonna do? Who am I gonna be? 

What will I become? Will I do everything right? 

But what if nothing goes right?

What if I am not capable of embracing my dreams?

What if I am wasting all of my time, and breath

In pursuit of an empty promise

in a tomorrow that may never come? 

Such thoughts only come

to childish minds, 

People of old age have already loved, 

and lost, and built, and destroyed,

and rebuilt. 

They have conquered, faced their fears, 

Sometimes cowardly hidden behind their mistakes and imperfections. 

They have no hurry to reach the future

As when you’re old, 

Your life is not a race against time.

It is the hope that your time will never come. 

It is the appreciation of what really matters, 

the grieving of all we've achieved

and lost along the way. 

So I wish I was of old age, 

So I could leave behind 

the anxiety of not knowing what is yet to come 

Which moments I will miss the most, 

which people I will love the most, 

and which dreams will finally come true.

Fearless about tomorrow. 

Reading that while preparing my dinner made me look twice at the news headline that had popped-up unannounced. ‘Oh! He is actually, dead’. Chills went down my spine, while I thought, ‘How is that possible?’. This was not supposed to be how the story should go. He was supposed to be taken to the hospital, treated, been praised for and acclaimed by every member of his organization and their neighbour, maybe acknowledged by the president, and then just use this instance to hype up his discourse and build up another narrative on how the left is an oppressive party, with oppressive people, and oppressive means to get what they want. 

Instead, all this led to was silence. Someone decided to take this matter into their own hands, and end the men’s life. With no chance of comeback, or rebuckle, or defense. And then it occurred to me. The world has finally reached its turning point, where the nation of freedom has turned into the nation of the supremacy of discourse. Where two ideas cannot coexist at the same time. Because whoever did this, thought they were doing everyone a favor, by silencing forever someone they could not even fathom to agree with. 

It never occurred to him that such a ‘distasteful’ discourse had its purpose and was fundamentally allowed to exist in a place where all have freedom of speech. It was not up to him to destroy the source of such hateful words. He did not do anyone a favor, he actually sent this reality even further down the drain. Who is he to think that his life and opinions were worthier of existence than the ones of another man.  

However, it is important to remember we all have feelings. When someone comes up with a discourse that may be perceived as harmful to individuals or groups, it may come with consequences. We can just look at history, MLK was eliminated for similar reasons all though his speech focused on pushing a group out of the margins, while Charlie may have, intentionally or not, tried to push them back along with many others. And the greatest irony of it all is that he actually died for what he believed in. Because we cannot forget he was a great advocate for the 2nd Amendment right utilized by the perpetrator. 

So, although I had the sinking feeling in my gut when the news came out and the words slowly computed into my brain, I could not help but feel numb to it all. Although I will never defend the death of a man I cannot feel any sympathy for what he stood for. I can feel disheartened for his family who had to witness such a brutal act of violence but I cannot feel an ounce of empathy for those who saw him as an extraordinary man. Because extraordinary men are supposed to leave this world a better place, not the other way around.

She made sure to step one feet after the other, avoiding the familiar screechy bits of the wooden floor along the way. When she finally reached the end of the stairs she could see a faint shadow coming throught the door cranny. With some courage, she decided to call out, "Who is there?! I have a gun!", she bluffed while getting closer and closer to the door.

Looking through the peep hole, she could see anything either then the empty street under the lamp lights. After taking a deep breath she decided to open the door and face whoever it was on the other side. With her hand on the handle she counted under her shaking breath "three, two, one", finally opening the door with a brusk push, swinging her racket at the empty space infront of her.

After some time she realized no one standed at her doorstep. She gave a last suspicious glance to her yard, and with a relief exhale she went on to close the door. But before she could completly shut it, she heard a little 'meow' coming from above, and there it was.

A little kitten stood in front of her, looking a bit confused due to the events of moments ago, but curious after all. She lowered in front of it, reaching her hand to pet it, which was welcomed by the little kitten who continue to move his head through her hands. "I guess your are not so scary after all" she thought while scotching the kitten to her arms and bringing it inside.

 “Look at what the wind has brought back to us!” she heard a voice behind her. “Have you finally grown tired of the shire's turf?”

“Quite amusing Genevieve,” said her sarcastically. “Were you not supposed to tend to the horses to make sure they won’t devour all our yieldings?” 

“I sure am, so you can trust it has all been taken care of.” Genevieve said, giving her a playful wink, and then whispering. “The twins will be entertained with them for quite some time.”

“You let your younger brothers look after the horses?” Amabice took a deep exasperated breath before continuing. “For the love of God Gene! In any case, I believe one of the cavalry men will be there soon, hopefully they will all still be there.”

“Do not worry milady,” she said, dismissing her friend's worries with a gesture. “the boys are quite handy in their own way. We have more pressing matters to discuss, have you found a partner for today’s dance?”

“You are well aware that I cannot dance Genevieve, I will be contempt in observing the celebrations from afar.”

“I knew you would say that, so I took the liberty of finding you a partner. I told him we would meet at mid-day, so let us go before we are late.” 

Between protests and curses, Genevieve was able to drag her friend through the streets of Elowen, until they finally reached the bake house. The smell of the burning wood feeding the ovens and the decadent baked goods being prepared reached both of their noses, making their mouths water with anticipation to try whatever was being prepared. 

“Why are we here Genevieve? What is this place? If we came here to eat, I think there were enough nibbles for you to fill your belly at the plaza.” 

“I did not bring you here to eat silly, let’s go inside and you will understand.” Genevieve was grabbed by the hand and the friends finally entered the enclosure. 

The smells from outside got even stronger once the door was opened revealing a charming space under the candlelights that helped brighten the interior. The tables were set with various types of breads, cakes, and pies of almost every flavour imagined. Amabice’s stomach rumbled to her discontent, and her friend's amusement.

“May I help you with anything my lady?” she heard a male voice behind her. Turning around to see a tall young man dressed in a baker's attire, the skin on his cheeks blemished with flour. “Please try this piece of pie, we have been testing a new recipe, I hope you will enjoy it.”

He shyly smiled, handing her a small plate and a fork with a succulent slice with a red filling she could not recognize. Amabice considered declining the offer, but her stomach rumbled once again, even louder than before. Taking the pastry, she cut up a piece, bringing it into her mouth. The sweet and tangy flavours felt like an explosion in her mouth, something she had never tasted before, and before she knew it she was taking another bite. The baker seemed quite satisfied with himself watching her take those bites with such gusto.

“I have never tasted such a delicious pie before.” she said, trying to wipe her mouth as delicately as she could at that moment. “What is it made of?”

“Strawberries, my lady.” he responded with his cheeks turning red in reaction to her comment. “My family brought them from our village when we left, my father turned them into jam so we could use them in the pastries and welcome our patrons."

“Your father seems to be an intelligent man sr.” Genevieve interjected “Although we are grateful for the pastries, we came here to look for Sr. Cassian, do you know where we may find him?

“It is in fact me, my lady.” the baker said, surprised to hear his own name. “How can I be of use?”

“Very well, I had a lovely conversation with your mother in the market a few days prior, and she mentioned that you are an exquisite dancer, but you have not found a pair for today’s celebration.” she said with a playful look. Putting her hands around her friend’s shoulder, she continued. “I present to you, Lady Amabice. She was also unsuccessful in finding a partner, so I hope you can help each other in this endeavour."

Amabice looked irritably at Genevieve's proud face, but returned to her composure. After the official introductions, both parties agreed to participate in the dance, mostly to appease their parents. When the time came, they exited the bake house and headed together towards the plaza where the villagers were gathering the couples to commence the estampie. Cassian offered Amabice his arm so they could join the crowd, as per the custom. 

“You seem nervous.” she said after noticing the uneasiness in his breath.

“I am not a very experienced dancer my lady,” he said taking a deep breath “please forgive me for putting you through such an embarrassing situation.” he bowed his head in a sign of respect, but when their eyes met Amabice was smiling.

“I believe we are both in alignment then.” she said with a faint, but sincere laugh. “Let us enjoy our brief time together, even if we may step on each other's feet the whole time.”

The dance started as soon as the symphony of instruments was heard. Moving somewhat in a circle, the pairs would go round and round, separating and uniting with each other following the rhythm of the music. Surprisingly, Cassian and Amabice beautifully in sync. Their hands would meet each other by instinct and their bodies moved from one side to next with precision. And what was supposed to be a torture for the youngsters with two left feet, became a hypnotic performance. At some point, it felt like they were the only ones present at that moment. They could only see each other's eyes, hear each other's breath. At that moment, the world had stopped. 

Suddenly, droplets of water came pouring down, at first almost unnoticeable, but soon they became stronger and stronger. It was a summer storm, except it was not summer. While everyone ran for shelter, Cassian and Amabice were still intertwined in their dance, barely noticing the change in weather. They were finally brought back to reality by a resounding thunder not too far away. They faced one another, clothes soaking wet, lightly trembling due to the passing wind.

“Such a shame, but I believe our dance must come to an end now Sr.” said Amabice, looking at his ivory eyes with much satisfaction. “Hopefullly we will be able to resume, as soon as this damned storm comes to an end.”

“Certanly, it will pass soon.” he said reaching his hand to move a strand of hair that had fallen over her face. “But if that is not the case my lady, you know where to find me for another dance.”

Behold, behold, as the caravan goes

Dancers turning their bodies into bows

The magic arising fills up the road

As the trumpets play a resounding ode

The crowd followed the procession in awe

watching whimsical artists with no flaw

A group with no destination in sight

that made their every pathway all much bright

If you wonder and ask about their past

They shrug with laughter dismissive at best

Cause what was left behind will not return

The memories were allowed to be burnt

So come and see the artists (of past) beyond loss

They do hope to get their message across

Edited

Behold, behold, as the caravan goes

Dancers turning their bodies into bows

Mystery and magic spread all around

With music showing where they can be found

The crowd follows the procession in awe

The most perfect artists they ever saw

A group with no destination in sight

making their every pathway all much bright

Behold, behold as the caravan goes

Where they really come from, no one knows

While you wonder and ask about their past

They shrug with laughter dismissive at best

So come and witness the artists perform

Their passage wreacking havoc like a storm

He certainly would like to know where it went wrong. After all that effort, what was causing him to lose the one thing he had worked so hard to achieve. It certainly did not have anything to do with them per say. Maybe it was destiny, or the evil eye, or maybe he had really just made a mistake marrying her. I certainly felt like that. Not that the commitment was a mistake, don’t get me wrong, but that I was the only mistake he had ever made in his life.

Now, looking at the shattered vase, the one he gave me when we were still just two kids trying to figure out life. Maybe he did not oversee this, that I was not the one for him. He felt like the one at fault, who was not good enough, who did not deserve her. What a tragedy, both in love, broken and lost, just like that messiness laying there, waiting to be picked up.

Wait, I forgot about that. I could pick up from where we left off, from where the love seemed to have faded and leave an empty space none of us were courageous enough to fill. He was reminded of the first night they met. She was wrapped around in an red gown, or was it white. He did not care to remember, what he wanted to remember was that feeling of seeing the love of his life for the first time, the thing that he seemed to have lost along the way. And as their eyes met, between the broken vase, and the red flowers, and the spread of water, they smiled at each other, as if nothing had been broken for a long time, their souls had found each other once again. 

In possession of those precious goods, she walked towards her platform in order to catch the next train ride. Close to the train arrival place, there was a young man sitting at a bench, enjoying loud music in his headphones, aloof to his surroundings. Looking around there were no other benches available so she just sat beside him, and placed her cookies at arms length so she could reach them. After eating the first one, she went for a second but was surprised by the young man’s hand over her biscuits. He then grabs one, eating it without much care. The old lady felt her face heating up, now looking as red as a tomato. She then took the package, putting it on her lap, to stop him from attempting to take another one. But her precaution failed as the young man reached over, placing the packaging back at the bench and taking another biscuit. When he then reached for the last biscuit, the old lady tried to fight back by grabbing it as well, starting a tug of war she eventually lost. But before he could eat it she asked if he could give it to her, as it was the last one. The young men broke the remaining biscuit into two, and handed the old lady one of the halves. But instead of feeling grateful, she could feel her blood pressure rise, and with an angry frown she smashed her half of the treat and walked towards the boarding area at the platform. 

After the train arrived, she entered it, still dispirited by the events that had unfolded. Taking her sit, she looked out the window. The young man was still sitting down, smiling and waving after spotting her. In disbelief of his audacity she turned away. Soon, the conductor came to check all tickets. After handing hers to him, she wanted to place it back in her bag. To her surprise, when she opened it, there laid a brand new package of biscuits. When she realized her grave mistake, it was already too late. The train had already started departure, and all she could think about was the kindness of that mysterious young man.

I was born on the 22nd of April 2005, at 1h30am, on an unusually warm night in the city of Curitiba, the capital of my home state. That day, my parents had gone for a long stroll in a local park with their nephew, my older cousin who was at that time a bit younger than I am now. They took lots of pictures while there and in one in particular, my parents were smiling for the camera in front of a beautiful waterfall. My mom's rounded belly was exposed, too big at that point to fit under any regular shirt, and my dad had his arms wrapped around her. That is still one of the prettiest pictures I have seen of them. Their eyes were filled with expectation, afterall I was about to be their first baby. In the evening of that same day, while having dinner at a friends’ house, my mom felt her first contractions. Putting myself in her shoes, I probably would have panicked right in that moment, screaming at my poor husband to hurry up, going around frantically trying to gather everything to go to the hospital. But their reaction was far from this imaginary scenario. My mom simply acknowledged what was happening, and as her pain was tolerable, they all went back to eating for a while, as if nothing was happening. Finally, when the contractions were close enough, they left for the hospital. 

But what else could I have expected? Both my dad and his friend were firefighters, so in the worst case scenario, I would have been safely delivered in that studio apartment as healthy as I could be. At the hospital, everything went smoothly according to them. During my mom’s whole pregnancy, they read together book after book about childbirth, baby deliveries, parenting, and many more. They felt as prepared as possible for that moment, knowing exactly what to expect. And so, after a couple of hours of pushing, I was born. They said I cried, just like any other baby does, and that I had the biggest lips they had ever seen in a baby. I was “virada em boca” as we would say in my native language. After days of testing, vaccines, and medical orientations, the couple of new parents finally went home with their child. 

My dad gave me my first bath, in their tiny apartment, under the sunlight that came through the bathroom window towards my baby bathtub. He made sure the water was warm enough, but not too hot, or so he says. In my first outing, the cold had gotten stronger, and they left the house with a carrycot occupied by a blanket “burrito” and a slightly visible baby, with only the vital parts of its face unprotected. I became an increasingly social baby as I grew. I would not cry for the most part, even when carried by strangers. My parents could leave me with whoever it was- aunt, grandma, friend- I would go willingly. My relatives used to call me the smiley baby, kind of like Miley Cyrus, but in my case, I was satisfied with keeping my birth name. 

My parents recount one time when they were taking the public transport with me. My father was holding me close to his chest, looking in an opposite direction than me. At some point, he heard me giggling at something behind him, and taking a look around he noticed other people on the bus with a weird expression directed at us. When he finally turned around, I was playing with a homeless man, trying to reach his face with my hands. When the man saw my dad looking, his smile at me vanished, as he thought my dad would take me away. Instead, my dad asked me “Are you playing with uncle?”, making me giggle even more. In my country, that is the respectful way of addressing adults, even when they are not blood relatives. The man got a bit teary-eyed, which made sense considering the usually cold and distant demeanor of the people in the city who acted as if people in his situation were invisible.

But of course, my adventures as a baby were short lived, ending some nineteen years ago. And since then I have become a legal adult, navigating life in another country, away from everything I have ever known. For that reason, I call my family in my home country every couple of days to update them about what I have been up to on the other side of the world, relaying to them both the good and the ugly: making new friends, visiting different places, studying new subjects, but also being overwhelmed with assignments, fumbling at my part-time job, and sometimes barely keeping up with my schedule. As it turns out, being a smiley baby does not necessarily mean being a smiley adult later on. I remember calling my mom one particular evening in tears after receiving an awful grade on one of my assignments. That had been the last straw after a stressful week of running around trying to keep up with my classes, society activities, work duties, and delivering every other academic task due at that time. I felt defeated, like all my efforts were being wasted, and my hard work was not enough. To make things worse, it felt like I had reached a point where every decision I was to make could have a significant impact on my future. And so a question kept echoing in my mind, ‘What if I make an irreversible mistake?’. The pressure felt like a rock had been placed in my chest making it hard to breathe, and although the sentiment was self-inflicted, it felt almost unbearable. And because of it, all I could think about was how I wished to be a baby again, with no worries about deadlines, or work, or anything else for that matter. 

‘Why can't life be as simple as when I was a baby? ’I asked my mother on the phone. 

She laughed faintly on the other side of the line as she told me, ‘Ana, life is still as simple as when you were a baby, you are the one making it complicated.’ 

‘What do you mean by that?’ I asked, not fully understanding her.

‘Babies are simple creatures, and for that reason we tend to watch them so carefully to keep them out of danger.’ she continued ‘But sometimes, because of their curiosity, they get themselves into trouble. Do you remember how you got that scar on your left wrist?’

Although I was less than a year old when it happened, I had heard the story of that scar many times throughout my life. Apparently when I was a few months old I had a close encounter with a recently used clothing iron, luckily I came out mostly unharmed, having burned only my wrist.

‘After that incident, you never got close to that clothing iron again, and sometimes you would even cry if we entered the same room as it.’ 

‘Ok, but how does that have to do with my situation?’ I said.

‘While babies cannot do much for themselves, one thing they can do is learn from their mistakes. You see, because everything is new to them they want to explore the world around them, and by doing so, they are bound to slip up. But after facing the consequences, they learn from these experiences to not make the same mistake twice. And they do not let these experiences stop them from continuing to explore, smiling at everything and everyone’ 

That was the moment everything became clear. No one likes to make mistakes, because doing so can lead to consequences which can hurt us. But making mistakes is  necessary for our growth. And as much as they feel awful at times, we should not let them define us or kill our curiosity for the world. Instead they should be motivators, guiding us through the different situations life throws at us. With time, it becomes easier as we learn how to deal with them from our past experiences. After that conversation, although I did not go back to my childhood self, I felt the relief of welcoming my mistakes, just like the smiley baby I once was.

Oh, how I wish I was of old age. 

As an elder, my body would be fragile,

Like a twig in a forest that snaps under a hikers footstep

My hands would waver, 

Like leaves blown by the wind

And I would spend most of my days 

moving at my on pace,

like a gentle stream going towards the sea

That change in physicality would be welcomed

As there are few expectations of a person

who resembles the intricate texture of an ancient tree trunk 

For me, old people are these fearless, filterless, fantastical beings.

In their world, there are no clocks to watch, no calendars to check

Nothing left to do, but a slow stroll from place to place

Cause what does one do, 

when there are no demands,

When the world does not reach for a contribution,

When the future has already been settled long ago.

In my elderly years, I will have already gone through 

the moments that will shatter my heart,

And the ones that will help me glue it back piece by piece

I won’t have any feverish, frivolous questions 

echoing through my head: 

What am I gonna do? Who am I gonna be? 

What will I become? Will I do everything right? 

But what if nothing goes right?

What if I am not capable of embracing my dreams?

What if I am wasting all of my time, and breath

In pursuit of an empty promise

in a tomorrow that may never come? 

Such thoughts only come

to childish minds, 

People of old age have already loved, 

and lost, and built, and destroyed,

and rebuilt. 

They have conquered, faced their fears, 

Sometimes cowardly hidden behind their mistakes and imperfections. 

They have no hurry to reach the future

As when you’re old, 

Your life is not a race against time.

It is the hope that your time will never come. 

It is the appreciation of what really matters, 

the grieving of all we've achieved

and lost along the way. 

So I wish I was of old age, 

So I could leave behind 

the anxiety of not knowing what is yet to come 

Which moments I will miss the most, 

which people I will love the most, 

and which dreams will finally come true.

Fearless about tomorrow. 

“Look at what the wind has brought back to us!” She heard a voice behind her. “Have you finally grown tired of the shire's turf?” 

“Quite amusing Genevieve,” said while rolling her eyes. “Were you not supposed to tend to the horses to make sure they won’t devour all our yielding?” 

“I sure am, so you can trust it has all been taken care of.” Genevieve said, giving her a wink, and then whispering. “The twins will be entertained with them for quite some time.” 

“You let your younger brothers look after the horses?” Amabice took a deep exasperated breath before continuing. “For the love of God Gene! In any case, I believe one of the cavalry men will be there soon, hopefully they will all still be there.”

“Do not worry my lady,” she said, dismissing her friend's worries with a gesture. “the boys are quite handy in their own way. We have more pressing matters to discuss; have you found a partner for today’s dance?” Genevieve said, grabbing her friends’ arm. 

“You are well aware that I cannot dance Genevieve, I will be content in observing the celebrations from afar.” 

“I knew you would say that, so I took matters into my own hands. Now, let us go before we are late.” Between protests and curses, Genevieve was able to drag her friend through the streets of the village, until they finally reached a refurbished facade, displaying the name ‘Pain Quotidien’. The building exhaled the smell of burning wood feeding clay ovens and decadent baked goods, which reached both of their noses like a punch, making their mouths water with anticipation to try whatever delicacies that place carried. 

“Why are we here Genevieve? What is this place? If we came here to eat, there were enough nibbles for you to fill your belly at the plaza.”

 “I did not bring you here to eat silly, let’s go inside and you will understand.” Genevieve grabbed Amabice by the hand, and the friends entered the enclosure. 

The smells from outside got even stronger once the door was opened revealing a charming space under the candlelight, which helped brighten the interior. The tables were set with various breads, cakes, and pies of almost every flavour imaginable. Amabice’s stomach rumbled to her discontent, and her friend's amusement. 

“May I help you with anything my lady?” she heard a male voice behind her. Turning around to see a tall young man dressed in a baker's attire, the skin on his cheeks blemished with flour. “Please try this piece of pie, it is a new recipe, I hope you will enjoy it.” 

He shyly smiled, handing her a small plate and a fork with a succulent slice with a red filling she could not recognize. Amabice considered declining the offer, but her stomach rumbled once again, even louder than before. Taking the pastry, she cut up a piece, bringing it into her mouth. The sweet and tangy flavours felt like an explosion in her mouth, a totally new flavour, and before she knew it, she was already taking another bite. The baker seemed quite satisfied with himself watching her eat with such gusto. 

“I have never tasted such a delicious pie before.” she said, trying to wipe her mouth as delicately as she could at that moment. “What is it made of?” 

“Strawberries, my lady.” he responded with his cheeks turning red in reaction to her comment. “My father brought them from our village before we left, and turned them into jam so we could use them in our pastries and welcome our patrons.”

“Your father seems to be an intelligent man.” Genevieve interjected. “Although we are grateful for the pastries, we came here to look for Sir. Cassian, do you know where we may find him?”

“It is in fact me, my lady.” the baker said, surprised to hear his own name. “How can I be of use?” 

“Very well! I had a lovely conversation with your mother in the market a few days ago, and she mentioned that you are an exquisite dancer.” she said, giving Amabice a playful look. “And you have not found a partner for today’s celebration, correct?” the boy nodded. Holding her friend’s shoulder, she continued. “I present to you, Lady Amabice. She is in dire need of a partner as well, so I hope you can help each other in this endeavour." 

Amabice looked irritably at Genevieve's proud face but returned to her composure. After the official introductions, both parties agreed to participate in the dance as the arrangement was approved by Cassian’s mother according to Genevieve. When the time came, they exited the bake house and headed together towards the plaza where the villagers were gathering to commence the estampie. Cassian offered Amabice his arm so they could join the crowd, as per the custom. 

“You seem nervous,” she said after noticing the uneasiness in his breath. 

“I am not a very experienced dancer, my lady,” he said, taking a deep breath. “Please forgive me for putting you through such an embarrassing situation.” he bowed his head in a sign of respect, but when their eyes met Amabice was smiling. 

“I believe we are both in alignment then.” She said with a faint, but sincere laugh. “Let us enjoy our brief time together, even if we may step on each other's feet the whole time.” 

In the crowd, Genevieve made sure to introduce the dancers’ mothers to each other, and both seemed very pleased with the arrangement, just as she thought they would. The three women watched them make their way into the line along with the other couples.

“I have a good feeling about this.” thought Genevieve, smiling at herself. 

The dance started as soon as the symphony of instruments was heard. Moving somewhat in a circle, the pairs would go round and round, separating and uniting with each other following the rhythm of the music. Surprisingly, Cassian and Amabice were beautifully in sync. Their hands would meet each other by instinct and their bodies moved from side to side with precision. And what was supposed to be a suffering for the youngsters with two left feet, became a hypnotic performance. At some point, they felt like the only ones present at that moment. They could only see each other's eyes, hear each other's breath. At that moment, the world had stopped. Suddenly, droplets of water came pouring down, at first almost unnoticeable, but soon they became stronger and stronger. It was a summer storm, except it was not summer. While everyone ran for shelter, Cassian and Amabice were still intertwined in their dance, barely noticing the change in weather. They were finally brought back to reality by a resounding thunder, and a voice calling from afar.

“Amabice, come take shelter for God’s sake!” Genevieve shouted from under one of the sheds, half soaked herself. The pair looked at her, seeing the amused eyes of their mothers beside the girl, whispering to each other.

But before they finally made their way to safety, they faced one another, clothes soaking wet, lightly trembling due to the passing wind. “Such a shame, but I believe our dance must come to an end now Sir.” said Amabice, looking at his ivory eyes with much satisfaction. “Hopefully we will be able to resume, as soon as this damned storm comes to an end.” 

“Certainly, it will pass soon.” he said, reaching his hand to move a strand of hair that had fallen over her face. “Shall we join the other ladies?” Cassian then offered his arm to Amabice, who took it with a shy smile, and both of them walked towards their amused mothers and a very satisfied Genievieve. After all she was responsible for what could be a flourishing love story.  

Dancers turning their bodies into bows

Mystery and magic spread all around

With music showing where they can be found

The crowd follows the procession in awe

The most perfect artists they ever saw

A group with no destination in sight

making their every pathway all much bright

Behold, behold as the caravan goes

Where they really come from, no one knows

While you wonder and ask about their past

They shrug with laughter dismissive at best

So come and witness the artists perform

Their passage wreacking havoc like a storm