We used to Dance Here.

I’ve been AWOL from blogging for a bit, but want to get back into the habit. So, I’m setting a goal to publish something here once a week, usually on Fridays.

Today’s post is a journal entry I developed a bit more. I was thinking about my parents’ home, which they sometimes talk about selling and how important a place can be to us. In thinking about the stories those walls could tell, this came out.

We used to dance here.

The flooring has changed since then; the cabinets, too. Gone is the worn linoleum, made to look like sun-warmed bricks. It was replaced by laminate and finally ceramic tile, just a few years ago. But here, in this kitchen, we used to dance.

The radio would be playing, and Mom might be peeling potatoes at the kitchen sink, tucked under the east-facing window, looking out toward Highway 25 as the golden light of the afternoon faded into the bruised sky of dusk. A song would come on, and she would stop everything, and we’d dance.

The pony.

The twist.

She’d twirl me across the makeshift dance floor, my ponytail trailing out behind me.

We ate here. Did homework at the table. We laughed here, cried here washed a thousand dishes here. But we used to dance here, too.

In the most mundane moments of the long days of summer. When I was young and when I was older. When life seemed perfect and when it felt like it was falling apart. When math homework was my biggest worry. When stopping to dance might have made supper a tiny bit late. In the middle of the mundane, we danced.

An extraordinary moment in the middle of the ordinary. An extraordinary grace in the middle of an ordinary life.

Here in this house, in this kitchen, we lived a beautiful life. It wasn’t perfect; it wasn’t always easy, but it was good. And someday, someone else will walk across these floors and stand at that sink, maybe peeling potatoes and gazing out the day fades into dusk while the radio plays in the other room.

“They used to dance here,” the walls will whisper. “They used to dance here.”