The Waltz

“I danced with Daddy last night.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. In the dream, I said to him, ‘I don’t remember dancing with you but once in my life, when I was 11 or 12. Would you like to dance now?’ And he said, ‘Sure, why not?’”

…and I put my left hand on his shoulder and my right hand folded into his and with the gentle sway and hum of violins, the waltz began and we were gliding smoothly forward and back, forward and back, and then we turned, sweeping around like the Tilt-a-Whirl that we used to ride with Daddy at the fair, his outstretched arms hugging us close in one tight bundle as our car, pausing at the crest of its undulant track, suddenly dipped and whirled, slinging us all to one side and then cresting and pausing, dipped and whirled round the other way, the girls shrieking and Daddy laughing and the music of an orchestra of violins swelling, violinists’ arms lifting and falling, dipping the bows to the singing strings as we swept round and round and ‘Ohhhh…I love this…’ I cried

and the music stopped and he was gone.

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