Granny tapped her foot to the rhythm over and again, as the middle school jazz band hopped through their songs. Her husband next to her, hearing aid hidden and ball cap on his head, slowly pumping his ring finger to “Sing! Sing! Sing!” but it was granny–with her blue plaid shirt and pink Keds that I watched.
There she was in my mind, twirling on the floor with shimmering eyes, a teasing glint and flirty smile, blue chiffon spinning with a petticoat peeking from underneath, white ankle gloves and matching handbag on the table. Laughing, pearl teeth under red lipstick, as she flows, jumps, and spins around the dance floor, the brass pumping in the background.
Is she remembering the live band? An icy drink? A first kiss? A secrert glance? the smell of gardenias? They must be happy memories, as her foot continues tapping.
And I wonder, will I feel this same way in 25 years if I hear the music of my youth? Or my growing older? or my children? C