maybe three or four times a year
We children had been put to bed
and were supposed to be asleep
but we two oldest often lay quietly
whispering our day’s secrets
when we would hear strains of Strauss
wafting up from the living room below.
If we hurried as we crept down the stairs
then hid behind the balusters
we would see Mother still removing her apron
as she emerged from the kitchen.
Father would stand formally and hold out his hand
Mother would take it in hers
and for just a moment they would hesitate
looking into each other’s eyes.
Simultaneously they would begin to move
his hand on her waist
hers on his shoulder
swirling, quick steps
no words spoken
no longer in a worn house with threadbare carpets
no longer worried about how they would provide shoes for their children
hands no longer battered and rough from the day’s hard work
instead now resplendent in the grand ballroom
he in uniform with sword and epaulets
she in gown and delicate slippers
all eyes upon them
and they with eyes for no one else.