Dancing. The kind of dancing in a nightclub or a bar, with a good DJ or an awesome band. You’re just a little bit drunk, and one of your favorite songs is playing. You get so into the moment that you close your eyes, you are the music, your body moving to it effortlessly. You know your best friends or your best guy are right by your side, but you don’t even care if they’re watching, because the music is perfect and you feel so good and you are so happy. *** I had moments like this back to back, weekend to weekend, sometimes day after day, when I was younger. Things changed, happiness was measured in different ways. Dancing like that came with much effort and pre-arrangement. But when I could get back to that sweet spot of the perfectly crowded (but not too) dance floor and that perfect song, those moments stay with me forever. In July of 2011 my best friends and I partied like that in Newport, Rhode Island. Four moms away from their kids and husbands and responsibilities, dancing in a sweaty basement of a club whose name none of us would remember, celebrating the year of our 40th birthdays. The memory comes to me in the dark between the flashes of a strobe light. Elena gave me a picture from that weekend, framed, and it now sits on the shelf to the right of my desk. My hair in the photo is brown, reminding me that it was before Lisa’s death, and the reason I think of it as The Last Happy Time.
Just One Paragraph 16/30