Abba

Dancing Queen

Fond moments fill my tattered cerebral memory box labelled “the lifetime before my very own high heels and mascara”. I dust off an old favorite from deep inside, clearing a vision of my mama cranking Abba as we danced like superstars around the living room of our old house trailer. An 80’s brownish, or greenish, shaggy type carpet became our makeshift stage on this warm Texas afternoon.

My mom danced.
My little 7-year-old heart leapt.

(I’m certain time is rather skewed in this particular memory box since I seem to be aged 7 years in every recollection.)

I gaze up at her, golden blonde hair glistening in the sunlight that clamors through the window to join us as we brought the rhythms to life. I don’t recall if we were alone, but in my mind, this scene belongs entirely to us. In a chapter of our story that was not always abounding in joy, these moments fell on my heart like a fresh spring rain quenching the desperate thirst of winter weary foliage.
Her laughter … Oh, how I drank it in.

In that instant, we were silly and I loved her for it. Nothing shackled us while those happy notes flowed through our hair, brushing our ears to ward away all worries for that brief time. Twirling and swaying, her slender frame spoke the words the music intended to convey.
An angel in acid wash jeans.
These rare candid moments ignited in me a lifelong love of dance.

Fast forward a billion years and 20 lifetimes to last night, my boy cranks some 80’s metal in the car to liven up our long journey home. Grey leather seats set a new stage, air band of awesomeness ensues. My wicked cool drum skills on the steering wheel complementing his deftly moving fingers on invisible guitar strings. He lip syncs the lyrics as I belt them with passion, no holds barred.

All the while my brain observes, permanently sketching that golden hair, sparkling eyes… The laughter … The silly that I love him for. For a boy that has admitted embarrassment by his own mama’s dancing around the living room, we still move in sync to our own type of waltz.

Though my G may not find these moments as cherished as I, each air band session with my son is as rare and splendid to my soul as those afternoon dance parties with my mom.

Today I will tuck both those memories, though eons apart, side by side in a new box labelled “coolest moms ever – the musical”