Ana Toader

He flashed into my existence yesterday evening, in some village, somewhere on the map, as the car passed him by.

In the wheelchair, he was dark and wore white and his limbs were thin like disjointed matchsticks against his body. Muscles that never had a chance to form. Words never learned. Perception strangled.

His arms were extended high, towards the red setting sun imposed on the summer sky, as beautiful as any Dali painting.  There was such divine rapture on his face, such grace in his posture that no Giselle in frail dress could ever match. To no audience and with little means, he expressed himself.

My healthy right side of the brain will never understand that particular happiness, but it seemed ballet and revelation all in one. A perfect moment to witness and widen the boundaries of my heart.