I can remember the dancing.
The sun would shine through the windows and into the vast expanse of the living room. It was warm and gentle, just like what it should be in 1975 Southern California. The swing music would come from the radio or the record player. Either way, it was there. She would grab my hand and say, “Come dance with me,” so I did. Her hips swayed as she swung me in and then away. I would bob toward her soft, warm breast, smiling and giggling as children are apt to do. I breathed in her scent. She smelled like a mixture of soft breezes, the beach and sun-dried towels.
She was a confident dancer. I would try to follow, but I was small and clumsy. She didn’t care, she just wanted to dance, and this was our moment. I smiled, laughed and moved my feet fast to keep up. I remember looking into her smiling face. She was relaxed, carefree and settled. She was everything to me in those moments.
She’s been gone almost 5 years. I wish I had told her that I remembered those moments and that I could take in her scent one more time.
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