“Your future is up to you,” Father used to say.  My hair is graying now.  My face has definitely seen better days.  I am forty-five years of age and I guess I’m going through what people might call a midlife crisis.  I think back to when I was but eight years young, and so full of life that I couldn’t quite contain my excitement.  I would dance around in the grassy fields of the local park and become one with the wind.  My imagination would often run wild with extravagant thoughts and scenes, and my lack of social life was of no issue because nature always kept me company.  I look at my reflection in the mirror.  I feel as if I am looking into the heart and soul of another person… A person who has seen life come and go without experiencing any of it.  That person is not me.  Something deep inside tells me so.

      “Miles, walk this way please.”  I did as the man requested.  He was an older man, bald except for some white hair on both edges of his head.  He walked with a slightly hunched back and showcased a mannerism of brusqueness.  I followed him into an empty room.  “Please, sit down.” The man gestured towards an empty chair, and again I did as he requested.  Despite the room being empty and seemingly untouched for decades, the seat felt warm, as if someone had just sat on it.  I looked around the room.  There were empty bookshelves in the corners…. Well, empty besides for some cobwebs and dust.  With the exception of the bookshelves, the room was absolutely desolate.  The light was very dim and there were no windows.  I looked at the man sitting across from me.  His eyes were sorrowful and pitiful.  I thought I sensed a hint of anger in them as well. 

“May I ask, sir, why I am here,” I said, rather calmly.

He breathed in slightly, before releasing an exorbitant amount of air.  “Tell me, Miles.  Do you enjoy dancing?”

I was a bit puzzled by this rather absurd question, and so I responded, “Tell me, sir, why am I here!?”

      Suddenly I regretted talking in that manner.  The man’s eyes burned with intense heat and he rose from his chair.  He leapt towards me, which seemed impossible for a man his age, and grabbed ahold of my shoudlers.  His fingers pressed sharply into my skin and I was momentarily paralyzed with fear.  Suddenly, the faint sound of a song began playing, although from where I did not know, since there were no discernible speakers in the room.  I recognized the music immediately: Offenbach’s Opera Barcarcolle.  Suddenly, I found myself dancing with the man all across the room, as the music became louder and louder, until the whole room echoed with the vibrancies of the beautiful sound.  The cobwebs tore away and sunlight consumed the darkness and emptiness of the space.  Both of us screamed in delight and cried tears of joy.  Suddenly, memories began flooding back and the music started fading back into the void from which it came.

      I lie up in bed.  My head is aching and my ears are ringing terribly.  I gasp in horror as I open my eyes.  The man is sitting on my bed, watching me.  “What do you want from me,” I plead.  Again the man grabs my shoulders with the might and intensity of a far younger man.  He lifts me up out of bed and beckons me to follow him down the spiral staircase.  As we get closer to the bottom, the music starts playing again, louder and louder.  Suddenly we are outside on a grassy field.  The clouds pass over the sun with the beauty and grace of the music itself, which is now at full volume and echoing through the air.  The wind lifts me and the man off into the sky and we begin dancing alongside the birds, with Offenbach’s masterpiece filling our ears with joy.  The man suddenly leans closer and whispers in my ear, “All I’ve ever wanted was for you to dance.”

      I look out the window, at the grassy fields and bright blue sky.  Birds are chirping ethereal melodies and the wind floats through to touch my face.  Goosebumps crawl over my body.  I try to stand but can’t.  More memories come flooding back.  All the time I wasted as a man, staying in a room for most of my adult years, watching as life outside passed by, and always too afraid to express my inner joy.  Depression consumes my entire being and I feel like dying.  I see my reflection through the window… An old man with white hair edging the sides of his head and a hunched back.  I think of my father and start to cry.  Just then, faint music begins playing: Opera Barcarolle.  The speakers throughout the old age home ring with this beautiful piece, as my soul slowly begins to leave my body, and floats off to join the infinite beauty and everlasting life that is the wind.