Old People Dance in Private. Not just the Rumba, Charleston, or Lindy Hop before the granddaughter comes to visit. Twirling around the kitchen slapping the air with clam-claps like hollow castanets, elbows and ankles marching up an invisible ladder, joyous spasms jerking. No name for this dance yet. Swirling alone recalling fleeting moments with a toddler who two-stepped my heart. Facing age, hers and mine. Her day today, seventeen. Forgiving the sun-ripened silken hair, cherry-blossomed cheeks adrift with fruity rose-petal scent—. The virginal blush. Her foot jitterbugging in nervous tapping echoing off a wax-sheened wooden floor waiting—to slide, to spin, to spill a heart-crushing slow dance saved only for him.
The Pine Cone Review 