Before Daniel.
Before mortgages.
That earring had disappeared more than 30 years ago.
Before cancer medication lined our kitchen counter.
Before I became the person everybody called when something needed remembering.
I was 23.
Richard and I were dating.
I’d worn that pink dress to a cheap little restaurant where the owner offered free dessert to anyone brave enough to dance when an old song came on.
I became the person everybody called when something needed remembering.
Richard refused.
Naturally, I stood up.
“Tisha, sit down.”
“Absolutely not.”
“There are people eating.”
“They’ll survive.”
I danced between tables badly enough to make strangers clap.
Richard covered his face.
Later, outside, he tugged at my dress.
I danced between tables badly enough to make strangers clap.
