Dancing with my father

A song just came on in the cafe where I am working that reminds me of my father. We danced to "I left my heart in San Francisco" before I left for my first teaching job in San Francisco. My father was an agile dancer, light on his feet and gentle. I wonder if he took lessons or just picked it up at the clubs where he danced with my mother when they were young. He taught me to dance when I was little, "Don't look at your feet," he would say moving me around the living room, "Relax, let me guide you." I wish I could tell him how handsome I thought he was, how secure and special I felt in his arms. I think he really enjoyed dancing. We have pictures of him when he was thinner, with thick black hair, smiling wide mouthed into the camera. He is with my mother, her hair in a high bouffant and my grandfather younger than I am today. They are all dressed to the nines my mother in a sleeveless wool suit, the men in dark suits with thin ties. They drink fuzzy cocktails and listen to the band playing cool jazzy tunes. "Let's dance," he reaches for my mother's hand. He's on top of the world so happy to have such a beautiful woman to dance with.