By Howard Jarmy

Halloween approaches, and with it I look forward to the annual visit with my dear departed sister with whom I was once so close. Once a year, at this particular time of year, many ghosts choose to make their appearances, and that is when my departed sister comes to dance with me.

She was a ballet dancer, also an accomplished tap dancer who appeared in shows and clubs where ballet wasn’t appreciated. Later she became a dance instructor - even today, having been her student for about 10 minutes, I can manage four distinct taps per step as I walk, a feat she taught me before she left to travel her lonely way.

Prepared for her arrival this night with recordings of dance music, I stand in a dimly lit room, waiting. Then, as the clock strikes midnight, a slow, smoky spiral forms from the center of the floor, and my sister materializes, her arms outstretched, beckoning to me. We smile.

I put my arm around the vision I cannot feel, and we dance, dances old and new: the turkey trot, the bunny hug, the two-step, waltz, rumba and, best of all, the tango.

She is graceful, looking as young and dainty now as she did when she left me, her figure still lithe, her face always smiling. I tell her she is light on her feet, but she always has been. She is amused at that. The only sound in the room is music and my own voice. I say that while I sometimes had trouble understanding her when she was alive, now I can easily see through her. It’s a joke, and she smiles. I smile. We are together again.

I rest from time to time and as I do, she flits around the room with graceful ballet steps, sometimes with her feet well off the floor for what seems an interminable length of time.

She doesn’t stay long; perhaps ghosts are on some sort of schedule. Finally, it is time for her to leave. We dance a farewell waltz, and then, as the music ends, we stand and look at one another. I put my arms around the vision and see, but do not feel, her arms around me. We gaze at one another, smile, and then she is gone.