Friday, February 21, 2025, 20.7*
I was dancing by myself last night in the kitchen to a song I didn’t know. It’s not what I asked Siri to play. I didn’t ask him to play anything. I told the dogs to “Stay” then I heard Siri: “Now playing Stay.” A slow dance - tree tops sway and will be dancing the rumba later today should the weather report be correct proclaiming 40 mph damaging winds.
Mom taught the three of us to dance – waltz, fox trot, tango, jitterbug. She danced with soldiers at the USO. That’s how she met dad. He called her Jo. That isn’t her name. Was this wartime code for not giving too much away to keep people from clinging? Perhaps it was a nickname but who chose? I remember a song proclaiming “the rain is Tess, the fire Jo…” My mom was not fire. At least not that I saw. Years after dad died mom became a ballroom dancer. Competed. A discovery made after she died. The flowing dresses in her closet, nothing like the costumes worn on “Dancing with the Stars;” full of grace and beauty. Mom was never fire but she could have been and perhaps was, with him.
“You turned my mourning into dancing;
you removed my sackcloth
and clothed me with joy.”
Psalm 30:11
Art: LJ Austin
