I want to get married. I know I have Down syndrome, but I’m high-functioning. That’s what Mommy tells her friends on the phone.
I don’t know who thrusts a broom into my hands and orders, “Dance!” The crowd steps back and I’m in the middle of a clapping circle, broom in hand. Clarinets play the first notes of the mezinka tantz. Chumi, a fountain of silk and lace, is my youngest child, after all; she waits for me to sweep my house clear of children.
But even with Chumi married, my home is not empty.
“No.” I shake my head and drop the broom. It clatters on the polished floor. Through the peacock colors rushing around me I find Miriam. I stretch out my hands and grab her, twirling her around until joy beams through her puffy eyes and wide smile. And I dance, hovering on the hairsbreadth line between joy and sorrow, drinking my fill of each.
Then I let go. I step back and leave Miriam alone in the center of the circle, a dumpy woman-child. She sways to the beat, raises her arms above her head. Her hands are like a song, ululating and trilling as they wave to the music. A hundred rays of light hang in the chandeliers above the dance floor. For me, they are eclipsed by Miriam’s face as she dances for her younger sister.
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