My Mom and Fred Astaire

And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak. And I seem to find the happiness that I seek. When we’re out together dancing cheek to cheek.

Heaven.

I’m in Heaven.

Her voice reverberated throughout the house. It was seven a.m.

My mom, she’s a morning person. And likes to sing.

She’s terrible at it. Off-key, a crack here and there, lyrics jumbled.

And that morning, it was Fred Astaire.

She stopped mid-wail, saw me shuffling in, hazy fog in my eyes.

“How’s my binky-baby-boy this morning?”

I’m 48.

Forty years ago. In the kitchen then, too. No songs. No voices boomed. She was upset.

“What’s the matter, mom?” I asked, my eight year old self tentative. I didn’t know how other people lived. Just our duplex, the little gas heater. Well-used furniture that looked comfortable to me.

“I don’t know what to make for dinner,” she said.

I glanced up in the pantry. There was a box with fried chicken on it. Flour.