This post is a bit late, as it concerns something I saw on my bike yesterday, but I don’t want to lose last night’s ride just because I didn’t have the energy to put words together when I got home. Yesterday, just as I was heading home from a lovely weekend of camping, I got a phone call from E. letting me know that a dear family member had died. Auntie L. was one of my very favorite aunts, the kind who whispers and schemes with you, lets you know you are her favorite, even when all the others are too, and insists on more fun than feels right. For her to be gone, just like that, feels so wrong. I wasn’t sure what to do with myself last night, pretty sure crying, eating McDonald’s, and watching football wasn’t really going to help anymore. So I got on my bike, rode down to Frenchman Street, and met some friends for Linnzi Zaorski’s jazz. I rode slowly, then super fast, straight, and then in lazy weaves on empty streets. Nothing quite felt right. It felt a bit like going through the motions, this pretending to be ok, but sometimes going through the motions is the best you can do. When I got to the bar, tuned to the music, the tempo sped up and these dancers took the floor (look at her fling that earring!), I smiled. There’s just something about good music and dancing freely that reminds me that it is really, really good to be here.