A favorite song comes on and we can't help it.
Our stocking feet slip across the kitchen floor, dancing to the music blasting through the speakers.
whoosh whoosh blur blur flurry flurry
fumble trip spin and laugh
feet firmly planted
feet flying through the air
It's the way we turn ourselves, trying to find our way to the right moves. I hold a tiny and chubby hand and we twist-and-shout and move our hips and then I twirl that small boy out and pull him back in.
My hand on the small of a small back and dip, and a little tummy drops with the fast-moving close-to-the-floor-but-still-caught feeling of it.
Like life. Turning ourselves and feeling it.
We fumble through our uncoordinated bonking and slipping and we hold on tight to each other.
My little dance partners, they like the dip part best, until that grows old and turns to the mundane like most things and then they say up! and spin! So I break free and then lift them up and I hold on tight and we spin and spin in circles until I stop and tell them it's good to take a break from spinning. To catch your breath and see straight.
They lose the life in their faces for a moment, in disappointment of the stopping, the rush coming to an end.
And then we wait for the next dip instead.
We learn each other's steps, and it gets less fumbly. We get to know each other and we keep moving, learning carefully how to refrain from hurting each other with our lack of skills.
Grace and consideration, in the dance.
Fumbly and good. Either way, we keep dancing, or the music means nothing.