“Think like a feather” mom said as she lifted me onto her hip. Every night before dad got home from work, mom danced with me in the living room. From the day she signed the adoption papers and scooped me up from the hospital bassinet—to the day she could not lift me—no matter how hard I imagined myself as light as a feather, she danced me around the room. Frank Sinatra, Nina Simone, Nat King Cole. My favorite was Harry Belafonte. I’d wriggle and shake until she had to release me to the carpet so I could jiggle and wiggle my way through the Caribbean sounds of calypso.

When Harry shouted out Day-O, I’d slink and shimmy. When he flirtatiously rolled out Dolly Dawn —I’d lose all sensibility and dance my clothes right off my body. Once pooped out from my limbo escapades, mom would lift me up again and we’d waltz until the front door opened. Dad was not as fun as mom, he just wanted to eat and go to bed every night—but mom and I created a ballroom in our tiny tract home—spinning vinyl until the chicken was baked and the table set.