My grandmother ran around the house getting everything ready. She looked like a chicken that just had its head cut off by a farmer and was now running around for the remainder of its little life. She may be our grandmother, but she’s momma to my brother and me. Her short curly wig stayed in perfect place despite all the chaos. I wondered if it was permanently attached the same way my Barbie’s hair was on her head. Her flawless crayon brown skin glowed brighter than the stars out in the countryside at night, and her potato shaped body moved around as lightly as if she weighed a fraction of an atom. She turned to Ronnie and me, the soft silky features gone from her face; instead we got the Medusa’s scorn. I was surprised we didn’t turn into stone! “Yawl go-on in da room now!” she yelled, with that peanut butter thick southern tone, words pushing and running into each other like a collision, begging to come out. We looked on with amusement and mischief in our eyes before heading to our room. I was about eleven or twelve and my brother a year younger.

My momma was always getting into an uproar when my grandfather came to visit; they have been separated for years, but that didn't stop him from coming to see us. My brother and I waited and listened for his truck to pull up; we could never miss it, especially since we could hear it coming from the freeway. The truck sounded like a death rattle, but who knew death could make someone feel so excited to hear it come? The time we sat there felt as if an ice age had just passed, and we were waiting to defrost. Finally, I heard death pulling up in the driveway. I gasped and looked at my brother. Whenever I saw the sun kissed color of my brother's skin, I felt warm; the long pepper black hair my mom always put in a ponytail made him look like my sister instead of my brother. His facial expression reminded me of the look I had when my grandmother told me my dentist appointment was cancelled: pure joy.

Click, click, click: the noise of my grandfather’s cowboy boots seemed to match the clock of my life, ticking away as Father Time collected the seconds. My breathing slowed as if I were waiting for the last bit of air to escape from my lungs. I jolted out of my room as I heard the door knob turn; I was a sprinter leaving my block and heading for the finish line. “Papa!” I shouted, running for his open arms. In that moment we were the picture from Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel: Adam and God. There was my grandfather reaching out his loving arms to me, and I was Adam, reaching back and yearning for his touch. But unlike the painting, there was no suspended space between our bodies keeping us from each other; in his embrace I was complete. I closed my eyes and took in his scent. He always smelled like cigarettes and whiskey, unlike my grandmother who smelled of peppermint and brandy. Letting go, I looked up into his rough face. His face was more like worn leather: smooth, but rough. With his thin, branch-like frame I was surprised that he could pick me up into his lap. I could feel the prickly porcupine stubble of papa’s beard on my young cheek.

Before my grandmother could tell me to go back into my room, I turned around sadly and walked the last mile back to my cell. My brother and I decided to wait until they were “full” (meaning drunk) before we would head back out to the living room. Thirty minutes later I heard laughs drifting into my room echoing in my ear. The sea nymphs were beckoning me yonder. We crawled down on the floor towards the living room; we were soldiers going through the trenches, ready to attack. I peeked my head around the corner to see what our “enemy” was doing, and I smiled when I saw them.

There was momma, papa, and their friends dancing, their bodies moving and swaying as if they had invented how the wind moves; I was watching a tribe doing a magical dance only they knew. Suddenly, my grandmother looked right at me and said, “Com on and dance wit yo momma.” I just looked at her with a frozen expression, with complete confusion, my face asking if she had really just told me Jesus was going to cook dinner. “Well baby, let momma see what you got,” she called. Should I go and embarrass myself in front of this tribe and attempt to do their sacred dance? Should I dance wit my momma? I moved to the middle of the living room and stared at the natives as they waited for me to imitate their ritual. Then I started to move and let me just say that jello in a bowl could dance better than me. My grandmother chuckled and said, “Oh shit, now that ain’t how you pose to mov.” I watched her; I closed my eyes and let my body listen to the music. Johnny Taylor howled the blues in the background. “These last two dollars, I'm not gonna lose. Got one for my bus fare, the other one for the juke box to sing me some blues.”

My arms moved away from my body while my legs tried to keep up, as my feet lifted up and coordinated my circus movements. I was dancing wit my momma and smiling the last real smile known to mankind. It’s genuine, loving, and hard, a reflection of my grandmother. We danced until the rooster sang. I was so happy that night I know I made love jealous. The memory pops up every time I hear someone singing the blues, especially that good ol’ Johnny Taylor. To me it wasn’t just partying with my drunken relatives. It was a gathering of old and new, an embodiment and physical act of love, but most importantly of all it was a dance wit my momma.