My parents love to dance.
Ever since I can remember,
my parents have loved to dance,
with each other.
I have always known this.
Ever since i was a very little boy.
We lived in Madison Heights, Virginia.
I was 4. Or 5. Or 6.
We all piled in the car one Saturday.
Mom, Dad, Lyssa, and me.
We passed Jerry Falwell hill.
And parked in front of an unassuming ranch home, I'd never been to.
From the front porch I could hear
a thump thump thump.
The host opened the door
and she was beautiful. Chic even.
As we went down the split-level stairs,
the thumps turned into beeps
and boops and, wow, sopranos
and bass and hope and LIVING.
Mom set me and Lyssa up
with coloring books and crayons
in the far corner of the room,
thankfully not out of eye- or earshot.
I dragged crayons across paper
pretending to do my work,
but I could not take my eyes off
the actual business of the room.
A few couples, my parents' age,
watched the hostess and her husband
weave their arms in and out of each other
with the fanciest footwork i'd ever seen.
Once the first magical song had ended,
the hostess put on another record,
and then all of the couples began to
repeat the twists and twirls.
They were all laughing and hooting
and sometimes even hollering, as
they twisted around the concrete floor
to the most amazing sounds i'd ever heard.
I was so excited by the ensemble effort,
but have to admit, I could not take my eyes off my mom and dad
as they learned the Hustle.
All afternoon long. At Disco class.
It was Heaven.
