Dancing with them was the best thing that happened last Tuesday.
Curls flying. Laughter. Little, slippery hands in mine.
“Faster, Mommy!” Ella said, on her tippy-toes. We circle dance, meeting in the middle like a bunch of Celtic monks, flowing in and out. It doesn’t matter if the music doesn’t exactly match our dance moves or rather our lack there of.
Loreena McKinnett sings “The Highway Man”, a haunting poem by Alfred Noyes, remember Anne reciting it in front of an admiring Gilbert in the movie version of Anne of Avonlea? My reverie about poetry ending as three year old Ben stomps on my bare toes.
“Dance, Mommy!” he hollers, daring me to stop thinking, pay attention, and just keep dancing.
Giggling, spinning, chattering, and trying to sing the eclectic ballads swirling from the “Book of Secrets” CD.
Phoebe grins her toothlessness up at me, readjusting her iron-like grip. I keep going, huffing and puffing, trying not to accidentally trip and make an even bigger fool of myself.
Collapsing, we start talking all at once, even the non-dancing, by-standing critics. “Remember the ‘Charleston’, that Jimmy Stewart did over the swimming pool?” I throw out into the fray. “Mom, you mentioned maybe learning contra dance,” Annie adds. “Let’s look up circle dances on You Tube,” one enthusiast says, “And swing like from the Glenn Miller songs from the other day.”
Eyes rapt with amazement, we watch the beauty of dance, movement, swiftness, creative precision.
It begins again, inspired and intrigued, we badly “Charleston” around, hilariously attempt Highlander jigs, float like butterflies and, well, you get the picture. We pump up the music and just let go, following a cadence of joyful footsteps dancing away the ages.
So simple, the world to them.
Shining eyes, quick breath, smiles look up and over at me. Like I hung the moon specially for them. All from a simple dance together.