Today’s post is dedicated to my father for his seventy-fifth birthday, and my son, Hayes, so we can honor Corrie always, and dance in the rain.
a word
When I thought of what to share today, I had written a reflection about my son, Hayes, Dad, my husband, John; and of course, Corrie for whom this blog is named.
First, Hayes is better. He still has a fever, but when I hear the words:
“I’m hungry. What’s for breakfast?” …
I know my son is back. What they don’t tell you about COVID-19 though is that you’re limited on what you can eat.
In retrospect, it is easy to say a parent overreacts until you realize what one day of under reacting costs you.
Yesterday, there were too many similarities between my son and daughter when his sickness first appeared. I have PTSD, and it causes memories from horrific moments to appear before you as clear as sunlight on our farm fields. A situation becomes difficult to decipher between the here and now, or what was vs. what is. The fear of what you’ve lost reminds you that there is always more to lose.
Hayes has COVID-19, and he shows mild symptoms. He is, thankfully, doing better. He is not happy about lockdown for the next two weeks, but we have a lot of farm to play on. I am so grateful for my son. His father and I are both vaccinated.
I’m truly sorry I could not give Dad the birthday party he deserved, yet I hope to give it to him later.
I decided against my first choice for today’s post. I’ll share it later. As I wrote these words for today’s original post:
I know laughter is beautiful, because like life, it is fleeting. In our case, it’s so fleeting, which is why I wrote something like “Six.” Laughter and joy are so precious.
I realized how many poems in Corrie’s When We Danced in the Rain collection reflect the value and the short duration of laughter and joy we share with those we love. As much as I experience anger, depression, and sorrow in grief and challenging times; there exists an absolute memory that joy is truly precious …
because Dad brings it to my life …
because Corrie brought it to our lives …
My gift to my father, Corrie, and everyone is to publicly share the title poem (below) of When We Danced in the Rain.
I did not take this decision lightly as it is a poem I’ve set aside in the collection to publish, and still hope to like “Six” and “When I Call You Juliet.”
When we danced in the rain, a poem
Grab your rain boots,
or leave your sandals
on. Let’s dance in the
rain before the
thunder comes.
Sit down, write
something out,
or type a quick
response to
someone from
the school where
I work as a teacher.
“Mommy, come and
dance with me.”
“I will,” I say,
“after I put this away.”
We sit in the old
navy blue chair,
and you have an effect
in your pink skirt with
its sheer sparkle overlay
and a producer’s greatest
dream of Hollywood eyes.
You and I watch a movie
from long ago where a
man shrugs and leaves
off his raincoat as he
sings and dances in the
rain. “He is in love,”
I say. “Love makes us
do such crazy things.”
A kind of anxiety
haunts me in the night
when the question rises:
What if I fail to perform
in the classroom? Wake up in
a sweat I cannot wipe away.
“Mommy, come and
dance in the
with me in the rain.”
“Maybe in a little bit,” I say.
“Let me finish this.”
“Ugh, but Mommy, you said that
five minutes ago.”
“I have on my coat. I’m
going outside now,” you
say. I laugh as I follow
you out because you
wear your red December
coat with black faux fur
on the sleeves and
around the hood.
“Go put on a raincoat.
It is not that cold. Your
daddy will get mad if
he sees you wearing
that nice coat out in
the rain and mud.”
“Awe, but Mommy,” you say,
“I like this one.”
“You can wear it
another day.”
It rains one Wednesday
in the late spring and you
lay in our bed. You had
moaned for most of the
night, and thrown up
sick. I thought it was
a stomach bug.
“I’ll get you to the doctor,” I say.
“I want to stay here, Mommy,” you say
in a voice without any desire to
dance in the rain.
By the time the doctor calls
the paramedics to lift you
onto an ambulance, your
face pales. I think you’ll
be okay as if it’s just a
little rain we hear on
the window before the
thunder comes.
You go into cardiac arrest,
and the paramedic tells me
to pump your chest. I pump
because you’re strong and
refuse to stay inside when
it rains. Two more
ambulances arrive on scene,
and I go outside in the rain.
I bowed my head to pray a
broken prayer and ask:
“Please can we
have the chance to
dance in the rain?”
No answer comes except when
the doctor says, not long after
we arrive on site, “We will try
one more time to revive her.
If not, she is gone.”
Remember when I had told
you the angels dance and make
the rain? Oh, how you dance
to make the most beautiful
rain. I will go out before the
thunder comes and dance
for you in the rain.
Rebecca T. Dickinson Copyright 2020-2021 R.T. Dickinson
Corrie's Season 