And then my dad. Coming into the kitchen not for the food, but for my mother. Lifting her hair off the back of her neck so he can kiss her there. And then, when that’s not enough, turning her around, kissing her again, not minding that her floury hands are getting all over his clothes. Then dancing with her to this song. When he dances, he doesn’t limp. He shows that grace, that lightness that must have accompanied every movement when he was young. When he holds my mother in his arms, you’d never know he’s in pain.
