Poppa used to call me his beautiful dreamer when he’d find me lying under the giant oak gazing at the clouds, or lying in the hayloft watching rays of sunlight from the knotholes make patterns in the air. I loved to read books from the library about ladies in distress rescued by handsome noblemen. And once in a while I’d sneak home a True Confessions and get myself all worked up about what a ninny the confessor had been just waiting for things to get better instead of doing something to make it happen. That’s what I’d do, I always told myself: make it happen. Often I dreamed that some day my prince would come riding up on his white charger, sweep me into his arms, and whisk me away to his castle in the mountains. The same mountains that reared their gnarly white heads over our farm. When I first imagined that happening, I was too young to worry about what would happen once we got there. It was just the wonderfully romantic idea of being swept off my feet. Later, when I got more. She was touching me all over, while drinking and cuddling together, further exploring the boundaries, suddenly the TV went blank, the snow had apparently cut the reception.And then I tuned the radio into a station playing slow blues and jazz Christmas music."Mmmm, I like this music, John," She said, swaying a little in time to the tune.I smiled and replied, "Would you like to dance?"She grinned from ear to ear. "I'd love to, John!" I turned off the lights on the Christmas tree lights and took her by the hand and walked her to the middle of the room in front of the blinking fireplace. She put her arms around my neck and I wrapped my arms around her waist and we slowly moved to the music.As the melodies flowed out the radio, Mom rested her head against my chest and whispered, "I love you, John"I wanted to cry "I'm not John, I'm your son" My heart felt like it would burst and I whispered back, "I love you, Natasha"Mom sighed and pressed herself more snugly against me. She lifted her.
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