Dancing Queens
I am back
in the small kitchen.
Supper is on the stove,
the formica table
seems so large,
steam is condensing
on the old windows.
My feet are bare
as I cling on to your
maternal apron
strings and bury
my face in your tummy
as I place my
five year old toes
on your slippers
whilst you waltz me around
in front of the electric cooker,
laughing.
You sewed
my cabaret costumes;
neatly embroidered the
points of my silk
block ballet shoes -
how I wish I'd
kept them now.
You made me the
grey felt wolf mask
with black snout
and sharp teeth;
now I run
as the wolf
as I shapeshift into
menopause.
My mother,
my dancing queen.
Flash forward
another forty years
and we are dancing
again.
This time I hold
you up
as we step
forward onto the dance floor
when the orchestra
plays your
favourite song
by ABBA, as we cruise
the Baltic under the midnight sun.
I pushed you round Stockholm
in your pink wheelchair,
the cobbles of the old
town rattled your bones
after we had cinnamon buns
and coffee in the square,
then looked over the Vasa
staring drowned sailors
in the face.
Sometimes, when I am
drowned by a wave of grief,
I go back to the small kitchen,
your apron strings
and our dance,
so I can feel your feet
holding me up again,
and we are laughing.
I may cry a thousand
daughter tears
as I remember
all the times
we laughed
and danced
and sometimes fought
in that rhythm that
only mother daughters
step to,
yet I know that you
are there to lift me up
as I waltz as a queen
wearing your cape now,
twirling old apron strings,
like Nana’s ballerina.
My mother,
my dancing queen.
We are laughing again,
you are young
and only seventeen,
as that is how you feel
on the inside.
Forever dancing,
having the time
of your life.
Here I am,
following
in your footsteps.
SCM 2018