That summer Mom painted the walls in our house like a tropical bird: deep blues with white trim, the dining room a kind of parrot green. Mom said, the house is big enough to hold all this color. Mom said, when I get tired of green, I’ll roll red raspberry over the walls.
That summer Mom and I danced in our house on the edge of New York City. Records, Hello Dolly, The Fantastiks, flopped like pancakes onto the console. We’d sway, then twirl across the bright navy rug splashed with red and white. Sashaying into the hall, then running leaping laughing, arms flung out like wings. One two three one two three, dipping whirling into the dining room dipping ourselves over chairs dipping our heads down, toes tearing air. We circled back through the kitchen for a swing on the chin-up bar, then up the stairs, up two three, down two three one two three, waltzing our way back, ending in each other’s arms.
Mom said, in my next lifetime, I’ll come back as a dancer.
Dorothy Southam Jackson
July 7, 1926 - December 19, 2001
Thanks for the dance, Mom. xo