UN BALLO
The night before my youngest son turned twelve, I set the snack table in my kitchen with blue decorations, numerical candles, two strategically placed gift bags that were filled with toy plushes the theme of my son’s most recent obsession, a matching birthday card that featured the number twelve, and all types of confectionaries–packaged mini vanilla cupcakes, store-bought rainbow cookies, nutella cups, and mini chocolate-filled croissants. The next day, I would complete the spread with all of my son’s favorite snacks, various cheeses, fresh berries, and turkey jerky. Accussi, mi priparavu. This is how I prepared.
This was the first year I would break our tradition. Every year before this, I would go to sleep late the night before my sons’ birthdays, decorating and preparing our living room for a celebration, and then I would wake up particularly early to be the first face they’d see when they awoke, the first to greet them with an enthusiastic “Happy Birthday!” My oldest son has always wished me a happy birth-day on the days I gave birth. And I always jokingly claimed my kids’ birthdays as my own. This year was different. I moved out of the family home ten months before this birthday. On days like this, the guilt of choosing this path hits me in waves of anxiety that grip me and settles in my chest. I cry on days like these. Since I lost my middle son on the day he was born, fourteen years prior, every holiday is bittersweet for me, and there isn’t a holiday or special anniversary that passes where I don’t cry. I cry because that son isn’t here. I cry because I’m not the mom I used to be. I cry for what could have been. I cry, because every special moment marks the ending of something in my children’s lives. This is the last birthday before my son becomes a teenager. Another ending. The last birthday of his childhood. And I won’t be there to greet him when he opens his eyes. I cried myself to sleep that night and prepared a full day of celebrating my son, which I was grateful fell during Spring Break, and I didn’t have to worry about work, lesson planning, or grading that week. I was able to focus on my baby and his birthday.
My youngest son is my “Rainbow Baby,” and in my mind, everything I do with him, or for him, marks the end of some part of motherhood. I take great effort to make special days magical, often sacrificing my own experience, and becoming the engineer, the operator, the spectator to these manufactured memories I hope my sons will remember with fondness. I try to craft nostalgia in the present. It’s unrealistic, but it doesn’t stop me from trying. And when things go awry, I’ll cry about that, too.
I woke up to an empty house on the morning of my son’s birthday. I texted my oldest son for updates. Is your brother up yet? Tell him I said Happy Birthday. When are you guys coming over?
My youngest son isn’t like his brother. My first son is a gentle giant, the most affectionate child I’ve ever known, even though he’s now technically an adult. Tall, big, and soft in physicality and in nature. My living teddy bear. I’ve never doubted his love. My youngest son is small, tough, and he shields his emotions. I can detect the magnitude of the feelings he suppresses. I feel connected to him because of this, yet apologetic that he is very much like me. He’s brilliant but has inherited the same temperament my father and I struggled to control – a low frustration tolerance for nonsense, easily irked by people who we found annoying for a multitude of reasons. My youngest son and I sometimes butt heads, partly because we’re so similar. We’re
both stubborn. He grew up with gentle parenting – a choice I have always stood by, because I felt like I was conquering some of my own childhood trauma by adopting this parenting method. I have yet to experience any kind of gentle relationship that lasted more than a matter of months, apart from the loving relationship I had with my paternal grandmother. I was raised in the old-fashioned Sicilian way. Respect, integrity and loyalty were paramount. Disrespect has always triggered my anger, and despite my best efforts to subdue my reactions, I was known to lash out in sharp quips. Children were naturally predisposed to acting disrespectfully, at least on occasion. And my sons were not spared my shrewd comments. This, in turn, sets my son off. The emotional standoff is palpable, and the tension has, occasionally, ruined a holiday or family outing.
On the day my son turned twelve, I planned a family trip to Six Flags. My ex-husband wasn’t keen on this idea. He lamented the price of tickets and suggested other options. I wouldn’t budge. This was my son’s last childhood birthday, I kept insisting. It needed to be extra special. I’d never have another twelfth birthday to plan. I packed a picnic for the car to offset the price of amusement park food.
My ex and my sons picked me up around eleven in the morning. I carried a heavy cooler bag packed with snacks, food, and drinks down to the car the instant I received the text, we’re here. I loudly sing-songed happy birthday as I pulled the car door open and greeted my son with a smile full of emotion, regret, nervousness, but overwhelmingly with love. My son was standoffish. I felt deflated but tried to mask my feelings, offering him snacks and drinks on the ride from Staten Island to New Jersey. By the time we pulled up to the amusement park, the cooler had been practically emptied, and my son asked if he could eat the hardboiled eggs I had packed, as they were one of his favorite snacks. I let him have whatever he wanted.
After we parked the car and headed to the park entrance, my youngest son seemed irritated. I tried to bring levity to the mood, talked about some of the rides I hoped he would be able to go on, and asked to take his picture. My son snapped petulantly that he didn’t want his picture taken. The outburst shook me for a split second before I could muster a feeble smile. My ex-husband and oldest son sensed the discomfort and tried to convince my youngest son to let me take a picture, but it was to no avail.
Don’t push it, it’s okay, I put my phone away and shrugged it off.
My son grew moodier. My stomach knotted with anxiety. After we entered Six Flags, my son’s irritability started to wear on my nerves much more quickly than I had anticipated. Which ride do you want to go on first? What would you like to see? I went into performance mode. I wore a mask to try to preserve the magic I wanted my sons’ memories to bank. Then my son did it. He snapped at me in a tone that set off something I rarely allow to surface. Disgraziatu. My ex-husband and oldest son didn’t even notice and kept walking.
I placed a firm hand on my son’s small shoulder, turned him around and aggressively told him to walk towards the public restroom. Right before we reached the landmark, I stopped him by jolting his shoulder, lowered my voice and harshly reprimanded him for his behavior, telling him I would not allow him to disrespect me any further. I threatened that he would definitely remember this birthday if he continued to act the way he had been carrying on. I went on for several minutes, ranting, not even remembering what I was saying, speaking out of emotion, telling him the cost of the park tickets and how he should be grateful we were there. My frustrations of everything I had endured over a twenty-plus year marriage, disrespect,
neglect, and other nonsense that spanned years before my sons were even born came bubbling up to the surface, and the steam escaped in words that were ill-targeted on this precious morning. I fought the urge to completely explode. The effort physically pained me. As I focused on the vulnerable big, brown eyes that so closely resembled mine, warning him not to send me over the edge, my ex-husband and oldest son stopped walking and realized that I had taken my little one aside. They watched from afar. I waved them away, observing my young son’s face grow red with embarrassment. I wrapped things up, trying to salvage what I spent weeks planning.
“Do you understand?” I practically growled.
My son fearfully nodded, a reaction that always bothered me. I had never laid a hand on my sons, yet on occasion, they acted as if they knew what it felt like to be beaten. “Do you understand?” I repeated.
“Yes,” he responded.
As we walked to rejoin the others, I was so upset. With his disrespect. With myself. I felt like I had just ruined his birthday, and our day was just getting started. I was hurt and angry, and I didn’t have anyone to turn to and tell me that I didn’t overreact. I wanted to turn to someone who could tell me it was going to be fine. I felt alone. Like an outsider among my own family, my children. A stranger to the man who had married me when I was only nineteen years old and promised me my life would be different from what I had known. It was, in some ways. In other ways, it was worse. I carried these thoughts with me often, feeling them grow into anger and resentment that loomed and stole my breath on days when I felt especially alone in the world.
At this moment, standing almost shoulder-to-shoulder with the son who I still referred to as my baby boy, I managed to stifle my vexation once again. I turned to my son, satisfied that I had gotten my message across to him, but I still felt provoked, like I was trembling to contain my exasperation.
My son, however, seemed to recoup pretty quickly. Minutes later, when I asked him which rides he wanted to visit for his birthday, he eagerly told his father and me, so we could map out the route to maximize the amount of rides he could enjoy that day. Before we headed off in the direction of the first rollercoaster, my son turned to me and said, “I’m going with him,” he pointed to his brother. “You’re not going on any rides today.” He looked at me sternly, and his father and brother stood slack-jawed. Chi cazzu mi dissi?
“That’s okay,” I retorted.
My oldest son tried to mitigate the situation by suggesting that we could alternate turns. I insisted that I was fine with this decree. It was his brother’s birthday. Let it be. Truthfully, the feeling of disrespect that led me to pull my son aside still lingered, burning in my stomach and chest. I wasn’t in the mood to ride rollercoasters. I was actively living one.
For hours, my ex-husband and I followed our boys across Six Flags, from one ride to another. After some time, the celebratory spirit returned, and my youngest son even stopped to pose for pictures, including me in some. I was feeling better. I thought, this birthday could still be salvaged. As we exited the park, I asked my ex-husband if we could go to dinner, since it was getting late, and we had planned to head to my apartment for cake and treats but hadn’t eaten a solid meal yet. We decided to eat at our son’s favorite seafood restaurant in New Jersey before heading back to my place. My sons both took funny pictures with the giant cartoonish shark’s head that was mounted in the front entrance. They ate their favorite foods, sipped their drinks,
and we joked about how “Mommy almost got banned from Six Flags” when a teenager booted the birthday boy from a seat on the ride he had stood on a twenty-minute line for, so that the girl’s ill-mannered boyfriend could sit beside her.
Yes, I had gotten myself ready to take my frustrations out on the punks who laughed as my newly-minted twelve-year-old cried and left the ride area after they told him to get up. I was standing far away from everyone, not wanting my mood to negatively impact anyone, when I heard my ex-husband shout, That’s bullshit! They kicked my son out of his seat! And it’s his birthday! My head turned sharply towards my ex-husband to focus on what he was saying, because my hearing is poor, and I needed to read his lips. Then my eyes darted to find my son among the crowd of park-goers who were settling into their seats. I spotted my son crying and heading towards the ride exit. In a swift instant of rage, I threw my belongings onto the floor, ran to the gate entrance, climbed up onto the barrier, and screamed, Who kicked my son out of his seat? My ex-husband rushed beside me, shouting, “She made him get off the ride!” He pointed to a smug teenage girl in a pink tracksuit with rhinestone lettering. “Don’t let her kick you off the ride! Go back!” Everyone turned their attention to the commotion, and the ride operators – who were not much older than my teenage son – immediately worked to find our son a seat on the ride. At dinner, we all laughed about the incident. My oldest son tried to recall what had happened. He had wandered off at that moment and missed the details, only witnessing the escalation that was luckily resolved quickly. Mommy turned ratchet pretty fast, I proclaimed, embarrassed but slightly amused with myself. As we ate, my ex-husband and I told our youngest son that he needed to be more assertive and reminded him that he had three adults with him who were not going to let anyone take advantage of him. I reassured my son how much we all loved him, and at the end of the day, this was what the family did. We showed up for each other. We would have his back. My son sipped his lemonade with a smile, finished his shrimp basket, and we all left in good spirits.
Once at my apartment, I slipped back into performance mode of the perfect mommy. I let the fudgey ice cream cake thaw, as I set out plates. I was excited to watch my son open the gifts I had bought him. The week prior, I had stressed out about the cost of this birthday, nearly an entire paycheck between decorations, snacks, and these little toys he wanted that were just released on the market. I convinced myself that it would be worth it to see him happy. And it was. We sang to him. He enjoyed two big slices of his ice cream cake, and then he was elated to open one gift after the other and find that they were exactly what he had asked me for. Mommy delivered, as always, I patted myself on the back.
After about an hour, fatigue hit my boys, who had spent the day being tossed around in the air and jostled by several roller coasters and simulation rides. Both boys were pleased with the outcome of the day, and I hugged and kissed them both. I wanted them to sleep over. I wanted to be able to cook them a big brunch the next day with all of their favorite foods. But they wanted to go “home.” I wanted to insist, but I didn’t. I wanted the day to end favorably. I packed up the cake and some goodies. My son packed half the toys and left the other half for when he would come back the next day. I sent them off with a few more kisses and hugs and promised them a picnic after a hike the next day. Saturdays were our usual hiking day, but since the birthday fell on a Saturday, we planned the hike for Sunday. Their dad took them home. When they were gone, I sat on my couch, wide-eyed, full of energy. It was just past nine o’clock. On most Saturdays, I would just be getting ready to go out dancing.
I sat in silence and reflected on the day. I did my best. My son was happy with his birthday. I did everything I could. Then why was I sitting all alone with so much unsettled emotion stirring up inside of me? It was still my “birth-day.” I wanted to celebrate. And my son didn’t want me to go on any rides. So, I didn’t. I wanted to make him happy. I can’t believe I didn’t ride a single thing. I didn’t want to sit home alone, either. I felt punished. It seemed so unfair – all that effort, all the strife, and now I’m all alone. I knew if I stayed in, I would cry myself to sleep, again. I was tired. I was emotionally drained. But something kept telling me I needed to go out. I picked up my phone and searched for venues that were hosting dance socials. Salsa dancing had become my passion over the last few years, a form of therapy, and I found a place through my social media that was just opening up the dance floor. I was hoping to run into a small group of friends who often frequented this event. I went to my bedroom closet to find a dress to wear, called an uber, and I headed out for what I hoped would be a night of dancing. Macari mi facio un ballo. Maybe I’ll have a good dance.
I felt pretty as I stepped out of the uber in my purple dress with beaded embellishments. As soon as I entered the hotel lobby that was hosting the dance social, I scanned the room for my friends. I was glad to see there were just enough people to have a good evening of dancing. I never liked overly-crowded events. I spotted my friends who greeted me warmly, and they invited me to sit at their reserved table.
It felt strange being out on my son’s birthday without him. As if I didn’t deserve this. In my mind, everything had to revolve around my sons, and going out on my own was something selfish. I sat back and looked around. There was a much smaller crowd than in past events, most likely due to people being away on vacation for Spring Break. Most of the people there were couples. I wondered if I had wasted my time going out. I didn’t think anyone would ask me to dance. The two friends who welcomed me were there with their husbands. There was an additional man with them, and the ladies motioned for me to ask him to dance. He didn’t want to, and I didn’t want to feel like I was forcing a man to dance with me. I tried to enjoy the experience of being out and lowered any expectations I had for the night. My friends slipped into Spanish as we spoke, and I was able to keep up in the conversation. One of my girlfriends asked me if I’m Puerto Rican, stating she couldn’t remember. I’m Sicilian, I corrected. Everyone at the table began to discuss me as their topic of conversation, as if my nationality was up for debate. They were all Puerto Rican and thought I was Puerto Rican, too. Even their friend who was there without a partner. We’re so similar in culture, they asserted.
Upon hearing that I’m “Italian,” I was suddenly deemed as exotic, and the stag friend asked me to dance. It was very basic, but I was grateful for the opportunity to dance and not be home. It wasn’t quite the dance I had hoped for, but it was better than just sitting there.
I spent most of the night chatting, until my friends asked me to dance with them. The ladies took the dance floor. The DJ played freestyle, and while I disliked the genre, I playfully strutted and danced with my friends, laughing and showing off a few dance moves. As the night was waning, I stood next to the table where my friends sat resting between dances, hoping that their guy friend might want to dance again. I was hoping the DJ would play salsa or bachata. I would even dance to merengue. Anything but freestyle. I wanted to get in one decent dance before I called it a night.
As I stood there, I felt the energy in the room shift. I sensed someone walking up behind me, and a smile spread across my face. Still, I continued looking ahead until he reached me. A tall, sharply dressed man called out to me and extended his hand, and I turned towards him, bashfully avoiding eye contact.
“Do you dance salsa?” He asked.
“I do,” I smiled, trying to restrain my excitement that he had sought me out for a dance, and to salsa, no less.
We took the dance floor, and he immediately showed off his flare. He was a powerful lead, and I held onto him as he spun me around. In the seconds it took for us to begin dancing, I found I was losing myself in that dance with him, and my subconscious told me not to look at him directly. Like a school girl, I averted my eyes as if the cute boy in class had just invited me to walk beside him, and I was afraid to reveal that I was slightly smitten.
“Don’t worry, I got you,” the smooth salsero reassured. “I’m not going to let you fall.” The timbre of his voice cut through the music, and I heard him perfectly. I’d never been able to hear conversations over the music.
I subtly gasped. Any time I have danced with someone unfamiliar, I have always prefaced the dance with my one rule. It was a way for me to set the tone and give a funny, yet realistic, expectation. . . don’t let me fall. Here this man was, and he affirmed the rule before I could get a chance to jest about it. And that voice. My goodness. I could feel every word he spoke reverberating inside of me, and I quickly understood why my subconscious was keeping me from looking at him in the eyes. This man was a force, both gentle and seductive. Suddenly, the night was turning into something I didn’t expect, yet I realized I was hoping for it. I had forgotten the guilt I was carrying for being out on my son’s birthday. I allowed myself to enjoy the moment.
As we danced, he asked, “Are you Italian?”
I laughed. No one ever guessed correctly. And on the first try! He asked my name. “Rosa.”
“Bobby.”
We finished dancing, and he followed me back to where I was standing when he had first approached me. He said he was glad I danced salsa. I was happy he danced to salsa, too. If we had parted ways in that instant, that dance would have been the highlight of my evening.
Bobby asked me about salsa dancing, where I dance, how long I had been dancing. I told him I loved salsa, but I preferred bachata, and I was slightly disappointed when he said he didn’t care for bachata. We danced again. He encouraged me to dance con sabor, and I showed off my salsa style. We had so much fun laughing and dancing. Just as the song ended and we started to walk back to the table, a bachata song played.
“Wait,” he took my hand. “You like bachata.” He walked me back towards the dance floor. “Let’s dance.”
I was so touched by Bobby’s willingness to dance bachata, I wasn’t fully present in the dance. Before I knew it, the song had ended. Afterwards, we stood, exchanging information about different dance socials, as he pulled up a calendar of events on his phone. During the conversation, he casually called me “babe” and immediately apologized, saying he didn’t mean to offend me.
I laughed, “I’m forty-one years old. The word ‘babe’ doesn’t offend me. Feel free to use it.” I took a sip from the Gatorade I had smuggled in at the bottom of my dance bag. I neverdisclose my age, but I sensed Bobby was slightly older, and I was curious to find out if my inference was right. I asked his age.
“Fifty-two.”
Nice. I don’t know why learning his age sparked such a deeper interest in this man, but it surely did. I wanted to keep talking to him. And we did. He asked me to guess his heritage, but I knew he was Puerto Rican. I told him no one ever guessed my nationality correctly before. But he did. He admitted that, from afar, he thought I was Hispanic, but when we danced, something told him that I was Italian. He kept asking me to guess what people always mistake his ethnicity to be. I told him I didn’t want to play this game. He was insistent. I told him I didn’t know.
“Just. . .look at me.” He brought his face closer to mine, and I had no choice but to examine his face.”
Oh, fuck. He was handsome. Was this a strategy to get me to stop avoiding eye contact? It worked. I was pulled into conversation with no resolve to end it anytime soon. The dancing around us slowed, and the event disbanded. People started to go home, and Bobby and I were still standing near the table where my friends had been sitting before they also decided to head home. Bobby and I learned that we both have two sons of similar ages. He had recently retired from a very respectable career, and he explained that his children were his main priority. With that admission, he hooked my interest further. We chatted with renewed vigor, as the venue emptied out. I told him I needed to get going, that I had to head out in order to call an uber. Phone service at this place was terrible. He refused to let me, insisting on driving me home himself. I resisted the invitation.
“Look,” he reached into his pocket and pulled out his ID. “This is my info. Read it. Hold onto it. Let me drive you home.”
I beamed like the shy girl who was just unexpectedly named homecoming queen. I was no stranger to occasional risky behavior. I ran away from home as a teenager with no true intention of ever returning home. I only went back because my parents tracked me down. If I had survived that ordeal and the aftermath, I could accept a ride home from this man, I reasoned. As Bobby and I walked out together, the remaining stragglers stopped and watched in awe as he convinced me to let him drive me home simply by handing me his ID. This was a first. Those who knew me had never seen me leave with someone I had just met.
Bobby and I stepped out into the chill of that April night, and it was as if we had become children, playing and acting foolishly.
“I didn’t realize you were so short,” he joked. “It’s nice. I can do this,” he rested his elbow on top of my head and laughed.
“Uh huh,” I couldn’t believe I just let this man touch my hair. Sicilians don’t do that. That’s so taboo. Hasn’t this man ever seen Saturday Night Fever?
We reached his car, which was parked at the end of the parking lot, and he opened the door and helped me in. I found myself a bit infatuated by every little thing he did, and I laughed softly in amusement of what was unfolding,
“Twenty minutes.” He put my address into his GPS.
Okay, I thought. I’ll be home in twenty minutes. This cute guy saved my night and drove me home. I’m feeling pretty good right now.
We were engaged in effortless conversation the entire ride home. He flirted, and I laughed. I flirted back, but I mockingly assured him nothing would happen between us that night, because we had just met. I was set on being a lady, especially after that embarrassing moment at the amusement park earlier that I had managed to push out of mind. Bobby pulled up to my apartment faster than I expected, and he parked the car. We weren’t ready to end the conversation. We spoke about so many topics, but each time the conversation turned flirtatious, we delved deeper into the desires we tried to suppress out of decorum. At times, questions turned sexual. They were answered without missing a beat, and the conversation returned to something more mundane. I turned in my seat to face him. The longer we talked, the more handsome he appeared, and his voice more hypnotic. I was entertained by the impression he was making. Hours passed, and we remained in his car, talking, laughing, getting comfortable with each other. We explained our previous relationships and the state of our lives. I hadn’t finalized my divorce yet, despite being separated for years, and I was overcome with relief when he understood my circumstances.
Bobby looked like he was hatching some kind of plan or inventing a game. He paused. “Give me a kiss,” he said quietly. “Amuse me. . .”
I sighed and glanced out the passenger window. “We just met.”
“Look, I’m not going to tongue you down. . .Just. . .do it. A quick kiss. Humor me.” I smiled and gave in. I found it hard to resist the adorable look on his face. And at this point, we had just talked for hours, which seemed impossible, because the time was slipping by so quickly. I planted a short kiss on his lips.
“I just kissed a married woman,” he feigned scandal.
I threw my head back in laughter, genuinely amused with his silliness.
We kept talking. Each time I looked at the clock, I couldn’t believe morning was approaching. Several times, I placed my hand on the door handle, but I had no inclination to leave. He pulled me deeply into the conversation with his charm, again and again, and I noticed more details about him.
“Oh,” I placed my finger on his face. “You have a cleft chin.” A feature I always admired. “A what?” He asked, as my observation threw him off.
“You have a dimple in your chin.” My eyes searched his face, my restraint softening. “I have one, too. I call it my ‘kissing dimple’.”
He tilted his head and smiled sweetly as I explained.
“You can only see it when I pucker my lips. That’s why I call it my ‘kissing dimple’.” “Show me,” he laughed flirtatiously. His face moved closer to mine. “You can’t tell me and then not show me. . .It’s not like we haven’t kissed yet.”
I laughed at his cleverness, appreciating his gentle charisma.
My lips met his. He reached to grab hold of my body, and I reached for him in response. He kissed me and held me, feeling along my body as I held onto his. I couldn’t pull my lips away, nor did I want to, but his touch felt so good on my hips, my waist. I relaxed. He tried to free my breasts from my dress, but the style of the dress prevented him from the access he wanted. His hands dropped, and he squeezed and caressed me as we kissed for more than an hour in his car. When he kissed my neck, I writhed and moaned in a way I never had before, and he held me tighter and gently applied more pressure before letting me compose myself from time to time. The sun was beginning to rise. My neighbors were getting ready for work and driving away as Bobby and I were still locked in a passionate embrace, unwilling to pull ourselves apart from each other.
Finally, after several failed attempts at ending our eventful night, we said goodbye. I wondered if my legs would have the strength to carry me out of the car, away from him, and up the stairs. To my surprise, I was strong enough to walk away. I fell asleep as soon as I reached my bedroom, pulled off my dress, and laid my head on my pillow. It was six in the morning, and I had to be up early to take my sons hiking.
After a mere three hours of sleep, I left my bed, tired but happy. I began cooking in preparation for a special picnic I had promised my boys, cleaned my apartment and washed laundry. Through the scrambling of chores, my thoughts drifted in the reverie of the previous night. I wasn’t going to kiss him, I laughed to myself. I was going to be a lady. The night came together better than any movie I had ever seen. There was no pressure. No insistence. No awkwardness. It all unwound so naturally. Effortlessly. And Bobby didn’t just come off as a gentleman. He was an amazing kisser. Very few men have ever kissed me like that, and no one before him ever made me lose track of time the way we did. I wondered if I would ever get to have a moment like that with him again. Nothing that good has ever lasted for me. I’ve tried to reason that evanescence is the price of potency. The more powerful an experience, the more ephemeral its existence.
I packed for the picnic, and my ex-husband and sons came to get me.
“So. How was your birthday?” I asked my son, as we sat in the backseat with the picnic basket between us.
“Good.” He looked at me sideways with an impish grin. “How was your night?” “Good,” I tried to echo his indifference and then snickered. “I had fun dancing, but I got home late. Like, really late.”
“Aw, I’m glad you had a good time!” My oldest son’s sweetness was reassuring. “Yeah. I’m glad you got to dance,” My ex-husband glanced over his shoulder at me as he gripped the steering wheel and monitored the GPS for any signs of traffic on the way to our favorite hiking trail.
I always told my boys whenever I went out. I always told my ex-husband, too, sparing him any details that might be uncomfortable. Just because we weren’t together anymore didn’t mean we weren’t family.
We had a good hike, and everyone seemed happy. Quiet, but happy. I walked the trail in a dream-like state, trying to keep my thoughts from wandering but unable to stop smiling. When we all stopped to have our picnic, I glared out into the distance, the beauty of nature as my background.
Suddenly, I thought of Robert Frost’s poem, “Nothing Gold Can Stay.” My smile faded briefly. My thoughts returned to the dance floor. What if the gold was already gone? Was the dance truly over? Would I be better off reminding myself that all I had set out to do the previous night was to have one good dance, and yet I received so much more in return? I had felt so guilty about wanting to enjoy my night, as if it had belonged to someone else, and now I was afraid I would never get another night like that back.
Something arose in me. Suddenly, I was in a new season. One where I was willing to allow myself to grow and desire. I wanted more than just one dance. I had never admitted it before. And if a moment of romance can stretch for hours in the car with a man whose kiss lifted the shame I had felt for feeling selfish, for wanting to live my own life, then the dawn – as Frost wrote about in his poem – can endure, as long as we’re willing to hold onto the gold a little longer. My family would understand, I assuaged my worries. My sons were my biggest supporters. They explicitly told me so before and after I left the family home. They wanted me to be happy. They wanted me to live my life. They were so proud when I started dancing again after having stopped for years, as I devoted myself to raising them, suppressing my authentic self for the sake of what I felt motherhood should be – an act of perpetual sacrifice.
The season was transitioning, with one son grown and the other on the cusp of adolescence. Both boys have given me their approval and cheered me on. The dance was just beginning, and everything was golden. As the day sets on the memory of this last childhood birthday, this culminating moment of planning and performing in motherhood, I’m ready to accept more than just one dance. I’m preparing for the gold, Robert. And this time, I’m holding onto it.
Bio:
Rosa Nero is the oldest daughter of Sicilian immigrants who raised their family in Queens, NY from the 1980s to the early 2000s. A writer and educator, cultural themes are often embedded into Nero’s work as she reflects on her experiences and perception on life.
