The words voluminous, ethereal, clouds remind me of her. She was my father’s youngest sister, her memory, forever synonymous with ballroom dancing. My earliest memories are of a black and white photograph with her seated on the floor leaning on a chair, a cloud of dress around her, her profile framed in the hairstyle of the late 1940s. Rita Hayworth comes to mind.
My father always danced across the room in ballroom strides with an invisible partner, when he talked about her. How light she was in step. How beautifully she moved. Grace on air, he would say. He admired her dancing with unabashed pride. She and her husband were the Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers of their day. They toured dancing tournaments in Asia and won numerous prizes. I believe they also owned a dancing studio.
I met her only a few times in my lifetime. She was petite, birdlike. A champion ballroom dancer. I know little else about her.
What I do know from my father is that she was a living cloud, who floated across our family horizon with brio.
I did not inherit her agility, her grace, or her posture, so I keep my two left feet firmly on the floor, and let my fingers tap to the music of her memory.
Until next time
a dawn bird
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