the story of a maniac (or, finding myself in memories with my mother)

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It can cut you like a knife, if the gift becomes the fire 

 

I remember sitting on the floor of our rental home, watching my mother’s feet pound against the carpet. Arms swinging, head turning, sweat pouring, she’d turn the volume up so loud our windows would rattle against the rhythm of the record player.

She’s a maniac….maniac I sure know.

A smile would curl her lips and her feet would move to the beat and I would see what it looks like to lose yourself. Her breath would catch and she’d take a swig of TAB before prancing over, grabbing my hands to pull me close.

“they all think she’s crazy….” she’d sing in the off-key way of hers and I’d giggle as we turned in dizzying circles around the living room. Leaning close, I’d breathe in her scent and catch a little of what it means to chase a dream – to lock rhythms with the beat of your heart.

It felt a little like coming to life.

 

I'm over at Deeper Story today - you can finish reading here.

 

Posted on February 3, 2013 and filed under finding{and telling}your story.