Voices on the Wind Evening Voices
Another Kind of Dance by Wilda Morris I always wished my parents would dance, music energizing their feet, their bodies, Motherís hand on Dadís shoulder, his arm around her waist, the light soft as kisses and me, silently sitting on the stairs, watching, dewy-eyed. Instead, Dad baked pie, apple or cherry. Often after my bedtime Mother cut and served two slices, set out silverware and napkins, scooped vanilla ice cream, turned off the lights and lit candles.