r put his hand on my shoulder, and I jumped out of the chair scre***ng, “Don’t touch me!I am sick and tired of dancing with you!” I saw the hurt on his face, but words were out and I could not call them back. I ran to my room sobbing hysterically.
We did not dance together after that night. I found other partners, and my father waited up for me after dances, sitting in his favorite chair. Sometimes he would be asleep when I came in, and I would wake him, saying, “If you were so tired, you should have gone to bed.”
“No, no, ” he’d say, “I was just waiting for you.”
Then we’d lock up the house and go to bed.
My father waited up for me through my high school and college years when I danced my way out of his life.
Shortly after my first child was born; my mother called to tell me my father was ill. “A heart problem, ” she said, “now, don’t come. It’s three hundred miles. It would upset your father.”
A proper diet restored him to good health. My mother wrote that they had joined a dance club. “The doctor says it’s a good exercise. You remember how your father loves to dance.”
Yes, I remembered. My eyes filled up with remembering.
When my father retired, we mended our way back together again; hugs and kisses were common when we visited each other. He danced with the grandchildren, but he did not ask me to dance. I knew he was waiting for an apology from me. I could never find the right words.