Sometimes I try to . . .

Sometimes I try to . . . remember dancing as a kid. In my memory the radio plays from a car parked in the grocery store parking lot. We dancers are swing dancing to early rock and roll not really aware that things are about to change. My friend, Wendy, who later died from cancer, jumps into my arms for a side to side scissor move and I swing her right then left then up high before bringing her down. We're dancing so fast it's like we're running.