Epifania

Epiphany is her name. The beautiful African woman whose voluptuous figure, silver jewelry and singing smile disguise the five children she has at home. She is young looking. Turning 29 in just a few days. Her strong, naked thighs greet the night air, comfortably showing themselves below a tiny cut of denim shorts. ¨You know how to dance,¨she says, inviting me into her rhythm and her curves. We are dancing. She is following my movements -- wanting to make the scene beautiful and harmonious. Black and white bodies carressing the night.

I am reminded of a halloween party a few years back when a young, rhythmic, ebony-skinned student caugth my vibration and focused her energy on complementing my movements, enhancing my curves and expressions. I watched her move through the dance floor, offering herself to all of the spiraling bodies, no matter how awkward, off-beat, beautiful, ugly, curvy, boney, drunk, sober. She floated, flowed like a breeze through the dancefloor and beautified the space with her generosity, her smile, her love of making other people feel beautiful and free. Epifania reminds me of this night when she welcomes me into her rhythm. She, with her sensuous curves and high heels, me with my petite musculature and sneakers. We dance. We sing. We admire each other´s jewelry. I silently thank her for dissolving my white skin with her kindness. Here I am, laughing with Livingston locals, happily sitting beside a delightful dirty-old-man whose underbite-smile fills my soul with warm fuzzies and whose shameless story of his sickness, his hernia, makes me both laugh and cry. He pulls down his trousers to show me his hernia. There, in the middle of the bar. And that´s okay. Because he is the loveable, dirty-old-man who has 26 grandchildren and enjoys Saturday night drinks with his family.