A Lotus Grows in the Mud Read Online Free Page A

together, nodding gently and moving her lips to the words of the song. Her big-eyed enthusiasm spurs me on.
    As the music reaches its chorus, I am now completely lost, not knowing which move to make next and yet letting the music take me to uncharted territory. Whirling and twirling, I realize that we are now almost at the end of the piece. The music fades all too soon, and I find a way to end the dance in a curtsy on the final line: “These wonderful things are the things we remember all through our lives…”
    Everyone jumps to their feet to clap enthusiastically, and I step timorously to the front of the stage to take a deep bow.
    Looking down at the audience, I see my true friends on their feet, my only friends—Jean Lynn, David and Jimmy Fisher—smiling up at me with relief and happiness. My mother grins broadly from the front row and nods her head. My eyes scan the room for Mrs. Toomey and find her standing over to one side. To my surprise, she is sobbing openly, beaming up at me through her tears.
    Gee, maybe not being perfect is what perfect really means.

 
    postcard
    “Y ou ready, Go?” my dad yells from the driveway of our house, lifting a bucket of live bait and some fishing tackle into the trunk of his dark blue ’49 Lincoln.
    “Next stop, Chesapeake Bay!”
    “Coming, Daddy,” I cry, rushing excitedly across the front porch holding whatever he has rustled up for our lunch. I am eleven years old.
    Settling into the front seat, I watch my father adoringly as he walks with his swaggering gait around to the driver’s side. Slipping in next to me, his hair slicked back like Fred Astaire’s, he glances over at me with those piercing sky blue eyes and smiles. “Ready to catch some fish, Go?” he asks.
    “Yes.” I nod, sliding across to cozy up to the first great love of my life.
    I love sitting right alongside Daddy in the front seat. There is nothing better than to feel the warmth of his body against mine, and to inhale the unique scent of his skin. Watching his long, lean musician’s fingers draped over the three-spoke banjo steering wheel, I sit very still and don’t fidget, hoping that he won’t shuffle those few inches away.
    In less than an hour, we are sitting out in a little rental boat in that muddy old bay at the mouth of the Severn River, our fishing rods dangling in the water. He teaches me to hook the worms and net our catch. There aren’t too many flounder, and sometimes we snag only a few small trout.
    Whenever I catch one, he smiles at me proudly and says, “My daughter, the fisherman!” Mostly, we just sit there laughing and talking and eating our sandwiches and waiting for a bite. Neither of us is really there for the fishing.
    Me, I am just so happy to steal some time with my fatherby myself. Because he works every day, mending watches, and is out playing his music in Washington, D.C., almost every night, these fishing trips are my most precious moments. He is always different when he is alone with me, more childlike and free.
    Out in the boat, facing each other on separate wooden seats, I sit quietly and listen to Daddy’s soft, melodic voice. He’s a dreamer with his own unique take on life, and I love to hear him talk.
    “You know, Kink,” he says, using the nickname only he uses, the one he calls me when he’s really happy, “if you ever feel like you’re getting too big for your britches, then come out here, or go to the ocean and stand on the shore and see how small you are.”
    Staring into the middle distance, he adds, “It’s important never to lose sight of that.”
    “Yes, Daddy,” I reply, nodding gravely. Little do I know that those are some of the most important words I will ever hear in my life.
    Driving home from our fishing trip through the green rolling hills of Maryland, we make up nonsensical songs together—odd combinations of words and popular tunes. I sing, “The moon is bright…,” and Daddy adds, “…and the sun is yellow.” We laugh