The Last Dance

I wanted to share with friends and family a memory with my Dad that I have been working on. I hope you enjoy it. Writing this has reminded me how important these little moments with loved ones are. We miss out on so many of these moments because we are distracted, stressed, worried, or even preoccupied with our phones. This memory has reminded me that we need to live in the present and truly appreciate the time we have with one other. I had no idea how important this moment it time was going to be when it happened; a short two months later this memory hit me like a ton of bricks. I'll cherish it forever.


The Last Dance

I am seven again, chocolate ice cream coating my tiny mouth, sitting in Daddy’s lap as he cocks his head in ornery laughter. Only this time I am eighteen years old, the time between now and my dreams ticking quickly away, and we are sitting on a wooden bench outside of an upscale gelato shop. We’re celebrating a belated Father’s Day. Music rolling from the loudspeakers illuminates the children chasing each other in a park that is probably too green and bright to be real.

            “I’m going to miss you,” Dad says. His eyes are always burning red with facetiousness and the chemicals he works with, but now, in this rare moment, they are soft and smooth, burning still with undeniable moisture.

This softness is the Daddy I will always remember: Sitting on the porch in a wiry lawn chair after he had poched my brother’s tush and yelled at us to hurry up. Wearing the black sweatshirt with his company logo on it and faded blue jeans with the holes and stains of an honest man.

My father thumps everywhere he goes. From my room, I can hear his feet pound, keys jangling, quickly up the stairs in a distinct and fatherly way, the only way a daddy could ever sound. He thumps because he is a busy man. He runs his own business, coaches the basketball, baseball, softball, and soccer teams of his four kids, takes me to gymnastics and dance and piano and gives me everything a little girl could ever need, could ever desire. But now, as he sits on the porch in his company sweatshirt and faded jeans, he is calm.

I am transformed into this moment of stillness, as he waits for us to pile in the car before school. The morning is crisp with the chill of spring, and my father’s face, brown from the sun, is serious.  There is dignity in the way his forehead furrows, strength in the way his brown eyes gleam of gold. I smell his coffee, black, with sugar, contained in an extra large plastic cup, the kind people get at the gas station. As he drives us to school, he holds the cup in one hand, or between his legs, sometimes handing it to me if he needs to use both hands to drive. “Be careful,” he warns me with sincere yet exaggerated caution, “It’s hot.”

Now, years separating me from the bright-eyed innocence of childhood, as I remember his soft brown eyes, I wonder what my father was thinking then, as he rested in the wiry black porch chair. I wonder if he was contemplating his four children, his wife, the beautiful house and life he worked so hard for. I wonder if he was happy, if he was worrying about all the ways we could be hurt or killed; I wonder if he was praying. I wish I could ask him now.

I am picked up again by the ticking of time, back to the brightly lit gelato shop, My dad loves Dairy Queen, and I almost prefer that we were sitting at the grimy tables there instead of this bright new development, just for old time’s sake, or maybe just for the sake of this precious memory. But we are laughing. And I’m full of glee, Daddy’s little girl, as if he were swinging me around at my aunt’s wedding reception, singing his special tune that was for me and no one else: How many times have I told you I love you? Out of tune and full of love and silliness like a Daddy should be.

And oh how the passing of time etching our hearts can make us all wish to sit on Daddy’s lap again, to smear ice cream all over our face and feel Daddy clean us up with his spit and a napkin.

And oh how I wish I can remember more about this moment in time, or that moment in time, but my brain is feeble in comparison to the vast expanse of memories we collect over our lifetime, and all I can remember about this short, sweet moment is sitting on the bench and teasing each other when my daddy looks at me with his soft brown eyes and suddenly asks me to dance. I glance around the park, see the families and the couples and the children hopping around like frogs. The sky is hot and bright, and I look back into his brown eyes, so serious and handsome.

So I take my father’s hand.

In the middle of the park and for all the staff and customers of the gelato place to see, my daddy and I dance to a tune I don’t remember. I’m too embarrassed to see if people are actually watching us, so I close my eyes and feel his cheek, warm and rough with whiskers, against my forehead. His heartbeat is strong and steady now.

And oh how relieved am I that I took his hand then and danced with him in public to a tune I can’t remember. Every other potential memory that was taken from me—taking me to college, attending my graduation, walking me down the aisle, dancing at my wedding, cradling my children with the love and silliness of the grandpa he would have been—all of these stolen moments and so many more are somehow blended into one great melody that builds, crescendos, in the silent crevices of my aching chest, louder and louder, until it finally booms into the finale with our unforeseen dance, this final, perfect, heaven-sent last dance with my daddy.

And even though he doesn’t sing it anymore, I can still hear it perfectly in my head. How many times have I told you I love you? Out of tune and full of love and silliness like a daddy should be.