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Those that remembered the tragedy better than me, picture the dark rainy night as cold and uncaring. It’s true that the night cannot care. Being alone and helpless, everyone wished the night could have magically saved her.

The air, almost freezing, was unapologetic and filled with nothing but raindrops banging on shuttered windows angrily. It’s true the air cannot be unapologetic, but the murmurs of far off sirens tried to minimize this moment’s sorrow. It did not help. Nothing could.  

My beautiful, talented and sparkling ballet teacher is dead. Her car, racing at reckless speeds, crashed in less than a blink of an eye.  

Over time, Dance for me changed as her laughter disappeared from my memory.  Dance moved, imperceptibly at first, but then it lost its entire appeal and positivity.  It is true dance cannot move. Remembering her, smiling at me as she always did dancing, the night’s feelings relieved once again, killed my passion for Dance, but not for her. Her grave, even after years seems to have fresh ground around her, is so close to me, that sometimes I believe she checks on me, even if I never dance the same again.  This I know is true.

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