Sunbeam dancin'

I'm trying to keep my mind off the elections tonight, so I think I'll take a trip down memory lane.




When I was a young child, every afternoon I grabbed as many toys as I could in my chubby, sticky hands and toddled off to the kitchen, depositing my bounty and myself in the middle of the floor. Mama became a contortionist as she reached over and around me to retrieve things out of the fridge for supper.

“Can’t you find a better place to play, honey?” she always asked.

Stubbornly I shook my head. This was exactly where I wanted to be. Engrossed in the adventures my plastic toy horses and I were having on the wooden floor, I lost track of time until the faint strains Andy Griffith Show playing in the living room reached my ears, and the kitchen was filled with the soothing smell of supper bubbling in covered pots on the stove.

I knew it was almost time; slowly I stood, forgetting everything, and faced the kitchen window. As if on cue, a large beam of sunlight shone through the window, bathing the dandelion-colored kitchen in an almost celestial glow.

Dust particles danced in beam, as if they were tiny kitchen imps. With the innocence of a child, I too danced in the sunbeam. “Look Mama, I’m getting sprinkled with fairy dust,” I squealed, resembling a small windmill as I whirled. “Make a wish!” I shrieked, pausing long enough to wish, then resumed my dancing

“Don’t spin until you get sick,” she said, looking away from the stove and smiling.

As I grew older, I stopped the crazed dancing; but that time of day remained magical. I still stood in the sunbeam, soaking up its warmth, as I closed my eyes and “made a wish”.

My attitude changed after Daddy’s death. On day, several months after the funeral, in desperation I ventured into the kitchen in the late afternoon hours. I was emotionally numb; I longed to feel something, anything, some resemblance of my former self. Like an old friend, the sunbeam shone through the window, and as in years past, wrapped me in its’ embrace. It didn’t help; nothing cold warm the dark recesses of my heart.

“Make a wish,” a voice whispered in my ear. Turning, I saw my mother, her eyes red-rimmed from crying, standing behind me. “You once told me it was fairy dust, remember?”

“It’s just dust. . .plain old dust, that’s all.” I remarked acidly. I pushed past her, turning my back on my childish beliefs for what seemed forever.

I never again thought about those fun, mystical times until recently. A few days ago, I was folding clothes in the living room, watching my favorite late afternoon shows. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my toddler dancing joyously in a sunbeam shining through the living room window. Childish, girly giggles of the past echoed inside my head as I watched him slap happily at the dust particles in the light.

“Hey Robert, know what that is? That’s fairy dust. Now quick, make a wish,” I said hoarsely.
The magic of the sunbeam has now been passed down to another generation; may it live forever.