The Dancer

By Jan McGuire

May 7, 2018

The Dancer

Mom danced with The Dancing Divas - women in their seventies proudly performing in over thirty elaborate costumes. Accessories included a Fedora with a plastic mafia machine gun, a red suitcase doubling as a small platform for tapping to “Chattanooga Choo Choo”, and a dazzling gold umbrella for swinging to “Singing In the Rain”. They are famous at the Active Generations activity center, and entertain at the state fair, nursing homes, and birthdays. 

While Mom had difficulty remembering her steps, she gifted her wardrobe trunk to the next dancer. The choreographer only takes the best. 

“The doctor says I can’t drive anymore.” Mom has gotten lost. “Did I take my pills this morning? One of them is for being dumb.” I tell her the pill is for her memory, not for being dumb. 

When shopping, she is looking at scarfs. I am a few short feet away as I watch her sway, then bob, to the Christmas music. Her rouge lips mouth every word. My heart melts, and I smile warmly into her radiant face. A humble starlet deserving of grandeur. 

I applaud. She has a joyous laugh. 

Her body is strong for eighty-three, her green eyes shine. Step together step, tap, tap, tap, kick. Her shoulders flutter, her purse on one arm. She uses space between the coat racks to two step, never looking at her feet. She smiles and watches for onlookers. She is free again.

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