Spring. Midnight. A rainstorm cancelled all flights. Stranded at Dulles with my youngest son while returning from my father’s funeral in Chicago. At that late hour the airport was relatively empty. Music played. A rhumba. I rose and extended my arms to my son. “I don’t know how to rhumba, Mom.” “I’ll teach you, my son.” And there in semi darkness we danced. He caught on quickly. We had all the time and space in the world. This was before 9/11 and no one suspected us of evil intent. For us, a sad time but special. We were together in our dance.
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