And then he danced....

My daddy,
he loved to dance.
Every Saturday of my life
he’d take my momma’s hand in his,
and then, they’d walk on out that door.

Down…..
Down…….
Down the road
past Delacorte’ Market,
over the railroad tracks,
to the far side of town
where they cut up a rug
at the country jambo.

My four brothers, two sisters and I,
we waited. Waited until we heard the
putt, putt, shutter, hum of the rusty ol’ pickup
come to a stop at the end of the driveway:
it woke us up.

We waited until we heard
the click, clack, shutter, clump
of the rusty ol’ screen door shut:
it woke us up.

And we waited until we heard
the shoo, shoo, shutter, hum
of momma whispering in daddy’s ear
telling him to stop all his nonsense: it woke us up.

So, one by one.
one by one by one by one,
we made it to the top of the stair
for we knew that a celebration
was commencing to begin.

My older brother,
he was already there,
leaning against the wooden banister,
playing the sweet, sweet sound of music with his lips.

My brother,
he played that harmonica
with all his heart and soul
and I loved the rhythm of its beat.
I could tell by the way my daddy
was laughing and carrying on,
with his arms draped over my momma’s shoulder
that he loved it too.

Taking hold of my momma’s hand
he took two steps back
doing the side-swerving,
hip-swinging shuffle
with his shoes, tip-tapping
across that hardwood floor.

We, too, moved our feet
from side to side,
my sister showing us how
to feel the rhythm
of daddy’s love song
to momma.

My momma,
she leaned her head back just so,
and with a move that surprises me still,
she fell with her back into my daddy’s arms.

We gasped.
All of us did.

He caught her though,
always did, and lifting her up in the air,
we sang along to the music clapping real loud
with our knees knocking together
as they continued to swoosh, swoosh, swoosh
across that dance floor.

My daddy,
he loved to dance.
Every Saturday of my life
he’d take my momma’s hand in his,
and then, they’d walk on out that door.

Down…..
Down…….
Down the road
past Delacorte’ Market,
over the railroad tracks,
to the far side of town
where they cut up a rug
at the country jambo.