She started it. She heard salsa music and started dancing like she does every year at Christmas. By herself or with the broom she’ll step to the right, then to the left, then to the right again in syncopated step with the Latin beats. My mom and her dancing only comes out around the safety the family brings. Within the familiarity of our walls she’s free to step right, step left, step right, and spin around without care.
I would stare at her in embarrassment when this tradition began years ago. After the death of my grandparents we played jibaro music in their absence to remind us they would always be a part of us. And that’s when she started. My mom would dance like she danced when she was a child in her living room by herself or with a broom.
And now, several years later, she’s still dancing.
Photo by Jasmine*
This Christmas was no different. She started dancing again. But something happened. Something changed. Something clicked. The embarrassment I once had while watching my mom was a faded memory. I stared at my mom dancing without a care—living life in a singular moment—and wanted to do the same.
I didn’t want to listen to music to remember my mother like she was remembering hers. I wanted to be my mother. I want to live in syncopated step with those I love in the familiarity of our walls. To dance. And know she started it.
After the Christmas presents were opened and the living room cleaned, jibaro music still filled the house while everyone scurried to set the breakfast table. Except me. I grabbed Matthew’s hands and began to step right, step left, step right again. It was my turn to dance, to move without care, to live in a singular moment. To be in the moment.
Not simply to remember the times, but to be in them.
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