“Every time we say goodbye, I die a little,” Ella Fitzgerald is singing while my parents dance on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon. My mother is barefoot. My father is wearing his work shoes, but my mother’s toes are in no danger. These steps are as familiar to them as their own heartbeats. As familiar as the words of this song.
I stand in the doorway and watch, embarrassed by something I can’t even name. My father’s arm is around my mother’s waist. My mother is on tiptoe, her arm across his shoulders, her head tucked beneath his cheekbone. Their other hands are intertwined, held between their hearts. Their steps are so practiced, so perfectly in sync, not a single inch opens between them as they spin.