Betty’s Dance

Betsy, with hands the color of midnight and a laugh that could wake a church on Sunday morning, wasn’t afraid of anything. Not the sneers that followed her through the market, nor the judgemental stares that trailed behind her like stray cats. Betsy held her head high, a crown of braided copper wire atop it, and danced to the beat of her own drum. It wasn’t a drum others recognized, a rhythm hammered out of hardship and resilience, but it was hers, and it set her feet tapping a steady counterpoint to the world’s disapproval.

One day, a young girl with eyes as wide as saucers and a dress the color of sunflowers stopped, mesmerized by Betsy's swirling skirts. In that moment, the world shifted. The whispers quieted, replaced by the melody of acceptance. Betsy, with a wink and a smile, twirled the girl into her dance, an unspoken conveyed by a look: Let them stare, child. We've got our own rhythm.