Rummaging through old photos this morning I found a picture of my mother from when I was a child. I stopped and starred at it for longer than I realized. Her long, red hair hung draped over her shoulders. Her fair, taut skin glowed and her green eyes sparkled. She wore a white sweater and a bright smile, her mouth gaping open indicating a laugh.
I smiled.
As a child my mother would dance and sing in the kitchen around holiday times or parties. It was a constant source of contention to hear her sing in the kitchen while I watched the Cosby show. My friends thought it was amusing. I thought it was embarrassing.
Watching her sing and dance to Chaka Khan’s “Through the Fire” while cooking pancakes was a mild form of child abuse.
But looking at her now in the photograph I realize she was singing not because she was crazy—but because she was actually happy. Both her parents were still alive so she let herself act like someones child. I haven’t seen her sing like that in years.
I’m taking my camera with me today. I want to document life while I can still sing and dance and act like someone’s child… not because I’m crazy, but because I’m happy.
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