Growing up in Southside, Pittsburgh, I was this wiry nine-year-old, Ethan, dying to be an adult. My mom, Laurie, would just laugh when I’d rant about wanting to drive or stay up late. She’d be in our tiny kitchen, flipping pancakes, humming some old bluegrass song from the radio. “Chill, buddy,” she’d say, her voice all warm and scratchy. I wanted out of that creaky rowhouse, away from her late-night coughs that got scarier every week. When she died of cancer in ’06, I was gutted. Figured growing up would fix the emptiness she left behind.
Southside had its own vibe back then, but I was too little to get it. Neighbors would shoot the breeze over diner coffee, all quick nods and inside jokes. Guys on stoops played cards, tossing around slang I didn’t know. I felt like a nobody, just a kid hugging his hurt, wandering alleys. My dad, working swings at the steel mill, was barely around, so I’d copy the older boys—tucking my jeans like them, trying to act tough—thinking that’s what being a man was.
Fast forward, I’m 26, a welder in Lawrenceville. Got my own place, hands always grimy, but it’s not like I thought. The city’s loud, but it feels… off. I’d sit with a Yuengling after work, staring at nothing, missing Mom’s goofy smile, the way she’d sing while messing with my hair. I’d give anything—my job, my freedom—for one more day as that dumb kid, hearing her hum. Her absence is this ache I can’t shake, like a song stuck in my head.
Last October, I went back to Southside for a block party. The street was alive—fiddles going, people dancing under Christmas lights strung up sloppy. I hung back, feeling out of place in my beat-up Carhartt. A bonfire was crackling, and I saw these kids dancing nearby, laughing like nothing mattered. One boy, probably eight, was spinning like a top, his mom clapping and grinning. It hit me hard—Mom used to do that, her hands rough from cleaning houses but so gentle.
Then Miss Ruth, this older lady who knew Mom, spotted me. “Ethan! Get over here and dance!” she hollered. I mumbled, “Nah, I’m good,” my throat all tight. She wasn’t having it—grabbed my arm and yanked me toward the fire. The band was playing “Wildwood Flower,” one of Mom’s favorites. The kids giggled at my clunky moves. Miss Ruth started singing, her voice rough but strong, and folks joined in, their voices mixing with the smoke. I didn’t know the steps, but I remembered Mom teaching me to move to that song, her laugh in my ear.
I started swaying, stiff at first, then easier, my boots catching the beat. Nobody gave me crap. A little girl chucked a glow stick at me, and I laughed, twirling with the kids. Right then, I wasn’t some washed-up welder—I was nine, Mom’s kid, dancing like she was watching. The firelight blurred my eyes, but I swear I felt her, her warmth in that music. I belonged, not to the grown-up world I chased, but to that moment, to Southside.
It didn’t fix missing her. I still get choked up hearing bluegrass. But that night showed me I don’t have to chase the past to find her. She’s in the music, the people, the messy joy of home. Now, I hit up Southside’s parties when I can, not to be a kid again, but to keep her close. Belonging’s just dancing to the songs she left me, one step at a time.
