Images of My Mother

I can still feel the bottom of my feet on top of yours that were covered

with white socks while you danced me around in the basement on the black and white

linoleum floor

while my big brother waited his turn

and little sister slept in her crib upstairs

We twisted to Chubby Checkers, you in your madras shorts

and crisp white blouse

your wavy, auburn hair swishing against your back 

eyes closed so you could feel the music

God, how you loved to dance

There was always music

on a radio or the blonde wood stereo 

with records stacked beside it

 mix of opera and polkas,

blues

rock and roll that you hid from our father

 You knew all the words to Creedence songs

 You sang off-key but it didn't matter as much as how it felt to belt those songs out from

deep inside

On summer days you baked in the sun covered in oil out in the back yard, the chaise lounge

smelled like coconut, the pages of your books, stained 

your shiny skin freckled and your nose with that slight crease that never

changed color was as pink as your cheeks by the end of the day 

We'd play in the yard or wade in the rubber pool beside you, run inside to fill

your glass with iced tea, ice cubes chuckling all the way 

to your chair

I loved looking at your year book from high school

that wavy haired girl with the mock white turtle neck sweater smiling 

from the page covered with signatures and good wishes of classmates and teachers

Your perfectly plucked brows and red lipstick lining your lips that curled up at the corners

Images of you playing basketball

Pictures of you in your prom dress, strapless and elegant

Dancing, of course

I liked thinking of you as a kid, maybe someone I might have hung around with

though I never got your gift for dancing

One of my favorite pictures of you was taken when you were about twelve

Skinny, leggy kid with crooked braids in your hair and a goofy expression on your face,

half smile half grimace

wearing saddle shoes with no socks, that look too big, probably hand me downs from 

one of your many sisters

It was taken at the farm where you grew up and couldn't wait to escape,

but a place that you had deep and beautiful memories of as you grew older

and more sentimental about those barns your father built

and the smell of fresh baked bread

Hide and seek in the orchards

under violet skies

The last time I saw you I said,

"I'll be back in a few days"

and you raised the one eyebrow the way you could, you said, "Stay"

Music was on but I can't remember what

 Your

 soft embrace remains

as does the dizzy feel of spinning around with you on a basement floor

keeping my feet steady on top of yours

Still my favorite way to dance.