Saturday night in a dim piano bar along a snowy, icy street north of Seattle, I danced "The Running Man," "The Chicken Dance," "The Hokey Pokey," and Luke's twirl and swirl. The wedding party members made creative and wild song requests but could not stump the dueling pianists. The talented men rapped, played the harmonica, sang and played classic Elton John and Billy Joel as well as Justin Bieber and SpongeBob SquarePants. And the bride wore a peacock feather in her hair.
How could I stay on the sidelines with all this joyful movement around me? Luke stepped on my toes, I tried to step around his. I got off beat, and probably stayed that way; I had to dodge a pole. Swing dancing, two-stepping, electric sliding, and chicken flapping to my left and right. Children and grandmothers shaking it up on the floor. Between songs we guzzled water at the bar. My feet hurt. The cool night air outside called to me, but the music men did too.
And on the stage, jumping in and out between the curtains around the pianos, a curly redheaded boy of two gave us all a show of improvisational dancing. My hero. He didn't care who watched and he didn't even seem to notice that we did watch. He became the music and the dance.