In the moonlit shadows of my bedroom
my parents dance a perfect waltz,
gliding slowly in and out of the darkness
to the strains of the Tennessee Waltz.
My mother’s hair lies loosely waved on her neck,
her eyes shining with a secret she never shared.
In her best cotton dress and wearing the pearls my father gave her,
she sways silently on her feet, a phantom of grace.
My father holds her in his arms, strong and steady,
as though he will never let her go.
The collar of his white shirt lies stiff against his neck,
his reddened rough farmer’s skin hidden in its creases.
In the moonlight, they waltz on and on.
Between and through the columns of light and dark,
they float and swing and dip as they circle the room.
They never stop smiling, and they never stop dancing.
When at last the music fades and the final notes hang in the air,
my father dances my mother to the door,
where she turns and smiles at me, her red lips curving in joy
a gift of love through time, and then dances away, is gone.
***
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