1954
I get to wear a black leotard, just like Mom’s, except mine has short sleeves and hers has long. She’s made me a pink cotton circle skirt, even though she can’t sew, and I twirl for her, and she smiles.
One by one we pick up the other girls, all in cotton skirts, too — a blue one, a green one, a pink one like mine. Like flowers, my friends and I sway and bob in the back seat.
We take the special road, the one that turns past a broken-down barn, then stretches up, up, up, and my mom floors the old Chevy, and we flowers giggle because we know what’s coming. At the top of the hill, the Chevy goes airborne, and our stomachs fall to our toes. My mom’s elbow rests casually out the open window, and her hazel eyes laugh in the mirror. “Another!” we shriek, and there is another, and another one after that, too, as we fly and fly and fly.
