We Dance for the Dead: A Night to Call Them Home

Have you ever stood in a place so quiet, so still, that you swore you could hear the whispers of those long gone? Last winter, I wandered through a snow-dusted forest, my boots crunching softly, my breath curling in the air like a fleeting ghost. There was a pull in my chest, something ancient and unspoken, urging me toward a circle of stones I’d only heard about in old stories. It’s the kind of moment that makes you wonder: what if the dead aren’t as far away as we think?

There’s something about winter’s edge—when the world feels raw and open—that makes you want to reach out to those you’ve lost. Maybe it’s the way the snow hushes everything, or how the bare trees seem to stand sentinel, guarding secrets. I felt it that night, walking through fields and past frozen streams, my heart a little heavy, a little curious. You know that feeling, right? When you’re not sure if you’re chasing memory or something more.

Beside me padded my companion—a wolf, her fur thick against the cold, her eyes sharp with a knowing I could only hope to touch. She wasn’t just an animal, not out there in the dark. She was a guide, a sister of sorts, moving between worlds I couldn’t quite see. No threat, no fear—just truth in her steady steps. I wondered, as we walked, if she could sense them already. The ones we were going to meet.

The wind tugged at my hair, my black dress flapping like raven wings. And the ravens—oh, they were there, circling above, their cries sharp and mournful. Not cries of war, but of memory, like they were carrying stories in their beaks. I’ve always thought ravens know more than we do. Don’t you?

When we reached the stone circle, it felt… sacred. Not in a churchy way, but in that bone-deep sense of standing somewhere timeless. We gathered wood, piling it high, and lit a fire that crackled against the cold. Sage and lavender went into the flames, their smoke curling upward, a bridge between here and somewhere else. I could almost taste the herbs on the air, sharp and sweet, pulling at something inside me.

Then came the others. Not people, not yet—but their spirit animals. A wolf, its eyes glinting. An owl, silent as it perched on a stone. An elk, its antlers catching the firelight. They were here for the ones we’d lost, so they could dance with us again, just for one night. Have you ever felt a moment so fragile you were afraid to breathe?

The drums started, low at first, like a heartbeat waking up. I kicked off my boots, let the snow bite my bare feet, and began to dance. Naked in the cold, I wasn’t ashamed—I was alive, calling out to him. The one I loved. The one I still love. I spun, my arms wide, my voice a whisper in the dark, begging him to come back, just for this.

And then… he was there. Not in body, but in spirit, so close I could feel his warmth. We kissed, or maybe I kissed the air, but it felt real. We danced, our steps weaving through the snow, the firelight painting us in gold. For a moment, it was like nothing had changed. Like time hadn’t stolen him away.

The moon climbed higher, its light soft through the falling snow. The wind sang, carrying names I knew and names I didn’t. The fire dimmed, the drums slowed, and I felt him slipping back, beyond the veil. I knelt in the snow, my wolf beside me, her fur brushing my arm. The world was quiet again, but not empty. Never empty.

I think about that night often. About how we dance for the dead, not to keep them, but to remember. To feel them close, if only for a moment. What would you do, if you could dance with someone you’ve lost? Would you take that chance, even if it hurt?

© 2025 Michael Bates. All rights reserved.

If this stirred something in you, drop a comment—I’d love to hear what it sparked. And if you’re feeling kind, a tip keeps me writing, keeps me believing these words aren’t just drifting into the void.