When I think about it, I’ve never actually seen her dance. But I’ve always known she was a dancer. Sitting on a bench in Chicago, before she even stood, I was immediately attracted to that one thing that may only be referred to as grace. It is this, I suppose that keeps pulling me in.
My mother was first to do it — to pull me in — stocking footed on the kitchen floor. The Frank Sinatra tape that we had to rewind by pencil because of overuse, played at full volume. She didn’t tell me she was leading (real leaders never have to). She gently slid me across the floor. An urge of a bent elbow. A nod. A lifted eyebrow signaled a turn. Smiles and giggles let me know I was not only doing it right, but soaring. No matter the chaos outside of this kitchen, I was lifted in this grace. I was always saved.
When we said good-bye to them at their garage door in Palm Springs the other day, my friend from a Chicago bleacher, she turned her hands up just a little by her side. With such timeless elegance. I was no longer in the car, but the kitchen.
You can ask me about love. You can say, “Do you believe it lasts?” To this I will answer, “I know it for sure.” It may keep changing shape, but it ever pulls me in. And when it does — when it asks me for another dance — I will always answer YES!
