Truth is, I didn’t have a solo part. Not really. I was just one in a group of girls. We all got carried in on the shoulders of a few male dancers. Jesse wasn’t one of them. Rodney would have been if he hadn’t twisted his ankle so badly. I wouldn’t have minded Rodney carrying me in. Once across the floor we entered again on triplets, then held in alternate time. Arabesque. We made a circle that broke as soon as it was formed. On a second count of eight I did an extension. Right leg, then down. Left leg, then down. Light steps into a circle again, then hold. Each girl ran forward to join arm and leg with another dancer. We collapsed in a heap. We rose alternately, off the beat. Then a flurry of jazz. Coltrane’s “A Love Supreme.” As each woman rose, swayed hips, then arms, she appeared to be reaching offstage and stage-front for something at a distance, something out there to hold on to. Some were pulled up from the heap, others fell gracefully back down. Step-two-three, relevé. First one, then another. Everyone was up. Hold-two-three. Extension: three o’clock, five o’clock. Someone at six o’clock. Hold. The men had gone. No one to carry us offstage. We continued to reach from inside ourselves, stomachs in contraction, for those things at a distance. The saxophone droned on, and on, and on. Lights dimmed. We held in relevé.

I was really trying not to feel sorry for myself. I was glad to learn new steps, even if I was dancing solo only in my mind. At least I was traveling in the light. Stagelight, yes. Artificial color, yes. But in movement with a kind of memory. Things you’ve felt or done before. Places you’ve been to. I thought I was really changing.