I’m watching a dance competition, a reality show that I like to think is not skewed in any way. Three tappers are in flight across the stage, the music fast and playful. I realize I’ve been smiling, which makes me think of my mother. As trying as she became in her last years, I sometimes caught her smiling when engrossed in a particular television program – a Fred Astaire or Katherine Hepburn rerun, or a performance of the Bolshoi Ballet. Then, briefly, my mother rose above the bitterness and anger over her drawn-out divorce and ensuing loneliness. She must have been swept away. I remember her spectator grin, a sustained, gentle suggestion of love. The residual effects of her joy lingered for an hour or so until she stepped back into her reality.
Whenever I watch a show that moves me, a show that I’m sure would have moved her, too, I picture her sitting across the room. My recollection of her benevolent look is often a fleeting one; it’s never that poignant. It’s a moment when I feel her near me, her countenance one of pleasure and, I’ve come to think, forgiveness.
~Lori Toppel
Whenever I watch a show that moves me, a show that I’m sure would have moved her, too, I picture her sitting across the room. My recollection of her benevolent look is often a fleeting one; it’s never that poignant. It’s a moment when I feel her near me, her countenance one of pleasure and, I’ve come to think, forgiveness.
~Lori Toppel
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