Life was always a dance with her. A quick-step in the beginning of my life. She was always there. Standing firmly. Teaching me to take my first steps. She was there on my first day of kindergarten. Standing firmly. Waiting for me to come home. Always there.
Life became a fox-trot with the arrival of my two siblings. She was busier. The dance moved more quickly. There were carrots to peel, clothes to iron, pies to bake. She did it all. Always. She created a secure, happy childhood for her three children. Dancing quickly. Standing firmly.
She taught the three of us to dance quickly, too. Jitter-bugging our way through life. All three of us. Excelling. Striving for the best. Dancing faster and faster. Twirling and swirling our way with her watching us. Always. Ready to pick us up if we stumbled and fell. We faithfully followed her lead.
The dance took on a new rhythm when my brother, Dan, died. I didn’t think she’d ever dance again. And three months later, Dad passed away. Would any of us ever dance again? We did. The dance took on a meloncholy rhythm. A slow, sad two-step. Through broken bones. Surgeries. Chronic pain. Sometimes the dancing came to a halt. But it always began again. To much slower music.
Now with alzheimer’s riddling Mom’s body, the only way she can dance, is holding on to someone else. She barely hears the music anymore. You have to be very still to hear it. But it’s there.
So, I dance with her. Slowly. To a gentle, soft waltz. Swaying to the music. Lovingly. Still faithfully following her lead. Because, for now, it is as fast as she can dance. I am there for her. Standing firmly. Just like she was for me. Always.
This post won the Post Of the Day award at David's
Authorblog.
This post won the Post Of the Day award at David's Authorblog.
