Dancing
I climbed in the long dark closet that connected our rooms, seeking the song I could hear on my sister’s radio. Over shoes, discarded toys, under coats and dresses and blouses above perfuming the way, perfume, hairspray, secret cigarettes she smoked with friends in the woods. The closet door was half-open and I pushed through, thinking I was sneaky. I was embarrassed and small. She leaned down and pulled me to my feet and turned to mama grinning and said she would teach me to dance. Then she held my hand and made me bounce to the beat. Eventually she let go and started doing the twist, just as mama once taught her to do. And I was dancing with my sister like I knew what to do. I didn’t. The small cube flash on mama’s cheap camera flooded the room, distant lightning catching memory.
