The fine thread weaving age and familiar, so that you see in the new everything you ever loved in the old

I call her Sunday afternoon.

I was wondering if you'd like to be my Valentine.

I hear the smile on her face before I hear her response. I'd love that, thank you. She tells me she'd like to go to the club, that they always have a nice Valentine's dinner. But you'll need to call.

Our table will be ready at 7:45. The voice on the line tells me that he looks forward to seeing my Mother. It's been a while since she's come in. Yes it has. In their terms. My father brought her here weekly; now she comes when we can take her.

When we arrive, the formal dining room is vacant. Valentine's dinner is in the ballroom. It's not what I wanted, numbered tables, fixed menu, a table that is not our usual, a large dance floor but windows far from where we're seated. I had hoped for the usual elegance of lights in the trees along the bayou, for the piano player that plays to his audience of her. Tonight there's a three piece ensemble. She's pleased, orders a Beefeaters on the Rocks, with an Olive.

She's quiet tonight, even when she's speaking. Sharon points it out to me later. The pace of the restaurant and lack of service don't seem to upset her. Normally, it could be what sends her over the edge. She is enjoying the music, happy to be here and happy that Sharon has joined us. Sharon, who Mom thinks the sun rises and sets over, and hasn't seen in a while, just might be icing on Mom's Valentine cake, she's so happy to see her.

I look around the room and remember when I was last here. My father's company's 35th anniversary. A celebration of high order. I danced with my Father and with my Uncle that night. I floated from table to table talking with familiar faces who I'd known since I was that tall. We all shined that night, we were all proud to be part of the success. No one prouder than Dad, as he walked through the room congratulating, thanking, sharing.

I hear that night echoing in the walls and and see bits reflecting in the windows.

Our Lobster Bisque is presented but we do not see another morsel of food for well over an hour and a half. More drinks though, they're on top of that. I hold my patience as I tip my glass and taste the bubbles.

She tells us, Your father never loved me, that's why I married your Mother.

I ponder the absurdity of the statement and realize she's battling her own father again. It's often where she returns when she's drinks. If you have ever wondered how far poor or abusive parenting lingers, the answer is that it travels with you for the distance of the rest of your life. What she tried to say was that her father never loved her and that's why she married my father. My father adored her and respected her, and she knew it. She deserved it.

On the dance floor is a boy I later learn is eight years old, dancing with his mother and doing a fine job of leading. They dance like pros. I'm tickled as he walks to the trio and makes a song request. Memories bubble up. I'm dancing on my father's toes, being twirled and dipped and led across the floor like riding a cloud. I watch over the dance floor at the couples, elderly, young, fathers and daughters. I remember those dancing days. I look at Mom, she has a glint in her eye, enjoying the music.

Sharon drives home. I sit in the back seat, leaning forward a bit, my hand rubbing Mom's arm, loving her. I hear her quietly singing, Fly me to the moon, let me dance among the stars.

We all take something from the night. Sharons says that watching the elderly couples shows her that true love does exist. Mom takes home the music. I take home the memories.