The ripe old age of eighty-eight was no excuse to be sitting down watching other couples dance to beautiful live music.
Papa was eighty-eight and me well, twenty-two. He is the father of my God-father.
He had just waltzed with his lovely wife to Old Portuguese fados and came back to his seat for a break when he saw me, sitting with five-year-old kids and dreamily watching the couples that looked as ethereal as those magical little dancers in a snow globe.
The band began playing their next set and Papa asked me to dance. I was excited.
Finally, I could be a part of the magic that was happening on the dance floor from swooning over the other dancers for a change. I was also a tad bit nervous. Not because I couldn’t dance or would be afraid of dancing. I love a good beat I can move to.
I’m never nervous while waltzing with anyone close to my own age. But waltzing with old seasoned grandpas was never the same.
To them the songs are as familiar as their next heartbeat. They have their own unique rhythm and they put more soul in their dance steps than I put while making myself a cup of hot chocolate. And we can all agree that hot chocolate is a beverage for the soul, but if there is one thing that can compete with it, it was dancing with Papa.
Papa and I started slowly as I fumbled in the beginning. Slowly but steadily I could naturally follow his lead and my feet by the grace of heaven stepped the floor at the right timings. Lest I stepped on Papa’s foot which would be embarrassing, thankfully I didn’t.
I am not a good dancer but Papa was a great lead. He could make even an amateur feel like they’ve waltzed to their first ever steps as a baby.
Soon enough, Papa and I were orbiting around the ballroom like a planet and its moon,
Completely in sync with the music and with each other,
Knowing exactly how and when the next step would be.
We circled the entire ballroom and as the song came to an end I realized what it must feel to be a dancer in a snow globe.