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Daily Prompt: An Ode to Dancing Memories

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There are two, two dancing memories:

Early, early on – I think I was three,

My older sister played Elvis

Very, very quietly lest Mom hear the banned music.

My brother and I stood rapt

As she pulled a towel

Back and forth, back and forth across her backside.

Her arms pumped and her hips swayed,

“See? It’s like you’re drying with a towel,” she said,

As she taught us the Twist.

Elvis_Presley_Jailhouse_Rock3

At seven, I leapt about the Florida room

Flailing my sun-pinked arms like a gawky flamingo.

My father’s Mexican sombrero lay on the floor

And I danced circles around it to the strains of some Spanish composer,

While Mom paused in her sweeping to smile, nod, and applaud

As the classical music that she so loved

Danced through her youngest child.

* * * * * * * *

Thanks to WordPress for this very fun Daily Prompt. Do you have early memories of dancing?

Microjourneys

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I’m still avoiding the fact that I must hit the road tomorrow, locking up my lovely mountain home until next Spring. I don’t have time to do another whole post of procrastinating, as in:

An Offer I Couldn’t Refuse: A Little Ditty on Denial « melanielynngriffin.

Instead, I will share with you two nonfiction microjourneys I had published in the last issue of Outside In Literary journal:

Outside In Literary & Travel Magazine.

Turns out they are both water-themed, but I’m too beat to try to do anything clever with that. So – I’ll talk to you after the road trip. Blessings as we enter December!

Last Road Trip of 2012

Microjourney One: On surviving hurricane Sandy

Once in a great while, I wish that I did not live alone. I expected one of those great whiles, the night that Sandy roared in. I lit the candles and scooted over on the futon to make room for Fear. Instead, old friends settled in: Louise Erdrich, Annie Dillard, Robertson Davies, and Leo Tolstoy. When Hayden and Handel arrived, I knew there would be no fear, only wind and rain.

Microjourney Two: On Puddles and Tears

I saw her through the dusty window as our bus bounced along a rutted Ugandan road, headed back to Kampala. She was crouched over a muddy waterhole, rinsing clothes in the brown water. Her hair was covered with an orange head wrap, and she wore a long print skirt which was hoisted up to her knees, revealing bare feet.

I had witnessed so much, after three weeks in Africa, that I barely registered the image at the time. I’d like to say that our eyes met, but I don’t think they actually did. She just slipped inside my head and made me cry when I got back to the States and started a load of laundry.

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