I don’t dance. My dancing repertoire includes the Cotton Eyed Joe and the Cha-cha Slide. And that’s it. In the eighth grade, I went to a school dance, fell UP the bleachers, tore my incredibly cool (not) camo pants, and bruised my shin and my pride all at once. When I went to 4-H dances, I’d lurk in the corner hoping that a cute boy would come ask me to slow dance. On the rare occasion that a cute boy DID ask me to dance, we’d awkwardly sway to the music while standing ridiculously far apart. I didn’t go to prom because why pay to go look like a fancy-dressed idiot? Somewhere in the world, there are videos of me doing Zumba at home where I thought I was safe to dance horribly. If ever my sister has reason to blackmail me, those videos are her leverage. There are a few good memories of dancing in my past: Learning how to two-step from a cute friend at a national 4-H competition. Dancing with a guy with a sweet southern accent that I’d developed a crush on while at the same competition. My fondest dancing memories all have something in common though. They took place in our kitchen. When my sister was younger, we would dance back and forth across the kitchen while mom fixed supper in the evenings. When Kyle was small enough that I could pick him up, I’d hold him while I dance-bounced all over the kitchen. It always made him giggle in that cute way that only babies can accomplish. The most recent kitchen dancing memory, the one that I love the most, happened the Friday after Christmas. Keith and I had just returned home after a dinner and movie date and were just hanging around the house not doing anything. The rest of my family was all in the den, watching the news and visiting before they got around for bed. Keith and I were in the kitchen, laughing and being silly like we do. I gave him a big hug and held him close, soaking up the moment. The hug tuned into swaying which turned into dancing, a simple, slow two step. As we turned circles there on the wood floor, Clint came into the living room and started playing the guitar and singing, providing the soundtrack to our little moment without even realizing it. The moment soon ended with my grandma somewhat awkwardly breaking it up, but I can’t help but smile to myself when I think back on those few minutes of quiet sweetness. When I look into the future, I can see myself with a handsome husband and a couple of cute kids. And any time we dance together, we dance in the kitchen.