I Dance
Some holiday-themed creative non-fiction for those seeking emotion and warmth this season.
Decades later, and the events of Christmas in 2005 remain vivid to me. The details return to me like a tired pet, seeking familiar companionship—the blinking bulbs, cinnamon in the air, even the way cheer seemed rationed, like slices of fruit bread. The reminiscing starts early for me, as if in preparation for the cold months.
The recession hadn’t hollowed out the neighborhood yet, but my poignant, child intuition sensed the shadow of the towers. I saw my mother’s tears when she watched news of the war and felt the empty bank account when we flipped the switch and found the lights cut off. But that year, my family attempted a holiday of small comfort between the chaos.
Still, something crept into that morning and resided in my grandmother. She moved slowly, like each gesture carried weight. Her smiles were forced, as if she’d practiced them. I didn’t have a name for it then, but later I would. Grandma’s Melancholy. And it was a sorrow that had been there long before and remained long after this time.
“The tree is full,” she subtly bragged though she never picked up a single gift. Only later did I realize she believed none were for her.
“This holiday is for young people.” She would repeat this like a prayer while folding her hands as though desire was something she’d already set aside or even forgotten existed.
The carpet lay littered with torn glittery paper, toys that I forgot once something newer was revealed. Yet one more box remained. Pushed to the back of the tree was the largest box I’d ever seen.
“Whose is this?” She glanced at the tag before pulling back as though afraid to claim too much. We all leaned closer.
“Go on,” Grandpa encouraged. A smile tugged from within, making him shift in his seat.
She took a step back, eyeing its size before looking at each of us in the room, noting our reactions.
“For the love of my life,” he confessed, smiling that same smile. Looking back now, it’s the smile I miss most, the twinkle tucked in the corners of his eyes, a reserved hopefulness.
I pushed my trash and trinkets aside with my feet, clearing the path between them, knowing this moment wasn’t mine to intrude on.
Her chest swelled, packing in breath. I remember holding mine as well. Just in case.
Inside was a record player. Sleek lines, dark walnut. For a moment she only stared, her hand hovering in the air, as though afraid the wood might grow thorns and prick her if she touched it. Finally, her palm pressed against the lid, gentle and tender.
Her eyes pooled, full of words that never came. She never let feelings show. Back then, this was more than we’d ever seen from her
Then she hurried to the nearest outlet, almost tripping over my clutter at her feet.
Grandpa leaned back in his chair, eyes smiling even larger. Pride grin, my mom used to call it.
Sounds of Motown filled the family room, making my shoulders sway on their own.
She looked down at the sound box and laughed. It was full, loud, uninhibited. It was a laugh unlike any I’d ever heard from her.
“Dance with me?” Grandpa asked.
For a moment, she froze, shoulders rigid as though bracing for a blow. Her mouth went slack, forgetting about the laughter that it just housed.
We all waited. My mother with a mug half-raised to her lips. Me with my toes curled into the carpet. We sat there, waiting for her to say yes.
But her gaze drifted instead to the empty trash bags on the couch, the coffee mugs, everything that needed to be taken care of. Her hands twitched toward the kitchen before she spoke.
I don’t know why, but I remember the bubbling in my throat. The way I wanted to yell that she had nothing to be sorry for.
“We need to clean this mess.”
“That can wait.”
Her brow tightened.
“Come on. Just two minutes,” he pleaded.
“If you want breakfast, I better go.”
He didn’t speak. But his eyes were unwrinkled.
Marvin Gaye kept singing, but the air seemed to hush them, like the music had been swallowed.
My feet had started tingling, desperate to run over to her and shake her. To beg her to give herself those minutes, not truly comprehending what those mere seconds could have meant.
I don’t recall how long it took to clean that day. The meal is gone from memory, but her refusal remains sharper than any flavor. The moment she chose order over joy lingers in me still. I watched her at the stove, stirring in tight, endless circles. Even now I see her that way, mechanically.
I carry that morning with me. Now, when music spills into my living room, I dance.
In the mess, any time on any day, with an audience or not, hands above my head, hips loose and unashamed, I dance.
Whether asked or not, I dance.
Why I Wrote This
As some of you may have noticed, I haven’t posted in a while. I’ve been deep in finishing a manuscript and easing into edits. As practice for some upcoming line-by-line work, I’ve been writing short, lyrical pieces and testing how far I can stretch my language.
This story was not only great practice, but also unexpectedly tender. It’s a memory of mine, and revisiting it felt a bit like opening a window into an old room. It softened a few corners, especially around my grandmother, with whom I’ve always had a complicated relationship.
Part of me feels strange sharing something so close to home, like inviting you all into my living room. But I think it’s important to stay transparent with our art and our words.
Thanks for reading, and Happy Holidays <3
-Bri