I’d had quite a day, nay, year, and I needed to get some things out. Bevan was off at a school board meeting but Sidney was home, stretched out on the sofa poking at some iDevice, the television set aglow in front of him.
"Will you do a thing with me?" I asked.
"Okay," he said.
I dialed the stereo up to 68, hit play and we got to it.
We started with "Baba O'Riley" by The Who, taking things slow at first, stiff and smiling and uncertain, choosing each move with far too much care, but by the time we reached the bridge any order we were holding onto was set adrift, the music passing through our bodies like a storm—and we danced.
We danced in the living room and the dining room and the kitchen. We danced down the hallway and up the stairs. We danced through doorways and in front of windows. We danced to songs by Rex Orange County, Blink 182 and Calvin Harris. We danced by ourselves and together and with Ellie. We danced our heart rates rapid, jumping up and down, spinning sloppy circles and screaming the lyrics up at the ceiling, neither of us worrying about Jorge and Martín in the apartment below us, certain they'd understand.
We danced hard and fast, setting caution to the wind and fire to our feet. We danced into madness and joy, through heartbreak and pain. We danced for our lives, for time gone by and for the adventures that lay ahead.
And we danced.
And we danced some more.
Finally, as the last note of "Mr. Brightside" trickled through the speaker above our heads we collapsed onto the living room rug, legs trembling, toes raw, chests heaving, rills of sweat slashing down our faces, and for a good long while we stayed that way, soaking in the silence.
And I'm okay now.