Six Minutes of Purity a Day

She only danced with the light of dawn, just when a ray of light, the first glimmer of sun, broke on the bone-white curtains of the living room. Bach, suite for cello solo, number 5. Granny Albertina's skirt on top of a black dress. She bought six of them, all the same, one for each day of the week, except for Sundays. On Sundays she hand washed all of them. Her pale skin reflected the sun light, becoming part of it. If somebody would have seen her, he would have thought she was a ghost. Six minutes of purity a day. This is how she called it when she tried to explain her mania to a friend. During those six minutes of melodic virtuosities, everything around her turned candid. The world would just become that abstract concept of 'outside' and it would almost melt in those sound waves that came out from the record player. The sound of Janos Starker's cello floated on the typical rustling of the record player, her father's. It was like a prayer, a meditation, a moment of supreme peace. Every object that participated to that dance became sacred and could release the light of dawn. The attendants of the psychiatric hospital of Saint Etienne never dared stop that magical moment. When a new attendant was employed, during the induction about the routine of the institute, Sister Geneviève would say these exact words: "At the very first light of dawn, miss Lucienne wakes up and dances; it's a performance enjoyable exclusively for very few eyes. Please don't interrupt this moment or disturb miss Lucienne. When she's done, and only then, you can wake up the rest of the institute and serve breakfast."
Nobody ever dared interrupt Lucienne's dance. Everything was worth for those Six minutes of purity a day, dancing with the light of dawn.