Dancing to life

A while ago, there was a benefit for a rape crisis center in my town--an art exhibition, with tango.

The gallery occupies two floors. Downstairs, I am sitting alone, reading the accounts of rape survivors, while upstairs, they are dancing, a violin wailing.

At first I think the music is too loud; the dancing overhead while these women's stories wait silently below, too macabre. A bit "Masque of the Red Death." Then I begin to think that there may be something else going on. 

I start to think of the dancing not as careless of the women's stories but as celebratory of their survival. Perhaps we dance because they are living, despite what was done to them. 

The violin sings defiance to the night.