Fiction Fix Seventeen

I
stand barefoot on his toes, the top of my head not
reaching his hip, his black shoes laced and slick, as
spit-polished as he wanted our lives, his hands holding
mine so I can fall back and around, my body weightless
and weaving to the sounds of the big band, the trumpets
blowing as if ready to knock down all the walls, someone
named Benny Goodman wailing, my father’s barrel-shaped
body hoisting me around the floor to the rhythm of a waltz
that plays only in his head while the jazz rolls through us, the
bass beats my chest, the clarinets lick my ears, and I giggle
when he throws me up to the ceiling and catches me on the
way down, the sandpaper skin scraping my cheeks, the smell
of his Old Spice stirred with martini, his whoop so loud I
press my ear to his, I put my arms around his neck and hold
on for dear life, because I know, somewhere in my little frame,
that this will be the only dance we’ll get.
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