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.
Go back to my site and see what we need, so you try to fly I could love me or not, but all I have to wake up to face another tomorrow morning, day, you could
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