In a far distant basement room there still
Remains traces of my mother's DNA.
There may even be the remnants of the
Bright sparkling magic that used to reflect
Of a hanging disco ball. Perhaps, too,
Echoes of Victor Marlborough Sylvester OBE
And his invented double reverse spin.
For here it was, for a while, in middle age,
My mother received weekly dancing lessons.
I personally never went inside so I can
Only see that room in my imagination,
I just drove her to the door step
And left her to her.... erm... escape?

After she died, I had to clear out
Her belongings from her apartment
And in a cupboard literally bursting
With a cacophony of jumbled papers
I came across her dancing certificates.
She took her escape seriously enough
To have her dancing skill examined,
Yet, as far as I know, she only danced
In that one basement training room.

I remembered then, certificates in hand,
How I had shopped around and bought
A can of silver spray paint and made
Her dance shoes glitter. Perhaps she clicked
The heels together and conjured up a rainbow!
I used to wonder what was the appeal
Of those lessons, but now I see that
They were her way of achieving
Something that she felt was missing
From her life, even if only she, and
Her instructor witnessed it.

© Griffonner 2025