Snug. August 2011, Pennsylvania.
This summer, when no one was looking, Dibi and I had dance parties. As soon as I’d get to her room, I’d close the door, switch on a CD I found in Pop Pop’s room, and turn the volume up. I snapped and swayed along to big band hits like “Heart and Soul,” “The Very Thought of You,” and “My One and Only Love.” Sometimes I’d sit on her bed and hold her hand and move it to the beat. Sometimes I’d stand up and twirl or plie or do slow, silly Tai Chi-esque stretches up to the ceiling and down to the floor. Whatever I did, Dibi watched. Her eyes followed me around the room. She can’t speak or stand anymore, but she was right there with me, so present as we danced.
Some moments you just know will be with you forever. Like, right when they’re happening even, you see yourself five years, ten years down the line thinking back to them. You know you’ll return right there when you’re particularly happy or sad, or just when you drift off to sleep or when your mind starts to wander. I love moments like those, like these, because they never really end. We refuse to let them. Whatever is next, Dibi and I will dance, just the two of us, always.