“Claudia, what do I always tell you? Salsa comes from the hips! Now, move!”
My face flamed as Kosta, my Serbian-born salsa instructor, squared himself in front of me, then grabbed my hips and tried to emulate the smooth gyrations that were coming from his own. When I snuck a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I decided I looked more like a swollen purple balloon jiggling atop a pair of stilts than the Latin dance goddess Kosta expected.
And of all nights, tonight was not the night to look like a swollen anything.

A deep voice reverberated around the empty chapel, bringing Sophie to a halt in the doorway. Outside, sunlight streamed over a group of black-clad mourners lingering in the memorial gardens. For a moment, she was tempted to let her feet carry her on, to pretend she’d heard nothing and escape into the Parisian sunshine… but that would be the act of a coward. She steeled herself, casting a last, longing glance at the departing mourners before making a slow turn to face the speaker.

One early afternoon, in all other ways like any other afternoon, her mother takes her out in her stroller, soothing her with a laughing mom’s voice. She tells her about the wind that sings and then softens among the branches and the swallows that compete in skill to skim the pond for a few refreshing drops of water before flying off again in perfect circles into the clouds.