As a child, it was impossible to separate me from my mother. I was obsessed with her. She was all that I knew, as mothers are when you are born to them. I loved to watch her. Every movement she made seemed miraculous. I didn’t know her feet were on the ground. I thought she floated. I clung to every word that passed from her lips as if they were tangible, believing I could do no wrong if only I held on tightly enough.
When I was small, we had a turntable in the living room, and I would regard her as she selected a record from the shelf. Tipping the cardboard case upside down, the disc would slide into her open hand, and then carefully she’d place it onto the machine. She pressed a button, it clicked, and the needle would lift and then lower onto the vinyl, like magic. It would begin its melody of scratching before the instruments kicked in.
William, Annabelle, and I would dance with her. Bouncing up and down, bending our knees, swaying from side to side, our mouths wide open in carefree delight. My mother would take our hands, one kid at a time, and twirl us around. We would jump in time with the music, spinning in circles, running around, our toes sinking into the plush carpet with each leap.
I don’t remember when we stopped dancing. I don’t remember when the music shut off. I don’t remember when I noticed her feet hitting the ground, or when her words stopped meaning so much. I don’t remember when that house became a place of sadness instead of joy. When the memories became too painful to bear. I just know that the woman who I was obsessed with, who I spent every moment thinking about, staring at, clinging to, she became something unbelievable for a child: my mother became mortal.