As my parents’50th anniversary approached, my brothers and I met to plan the party. My older brother said, “Do you remember that night you wouldn’t dance with him? Boy, was he mad? I couldn’t believe he’d get so mad about a thing like that. I’ll bet you haven’t danced with him since.”
I did not tell him he was right.
My younger brother promised to get the band. “Make sure they can play waltzes and polkas.” I told him.
I did not tell him that all I wanted to do was dance once more with my father.
When the band began to play after dinner, my parents took the floor. They glided around the room, inviting the others to join them. The guests rose to their feet, applauding the golden couple. My father danced with his granddaughters, and then the band began to play the “Beer Barrel Polka.”
“Roll out the barrel.” I heard my father singing. Then I knew it was time. I wound my way through a few couples and tapped my daughter on the shoulder.
“Excuse me, ” I said, looking directly into my father’s eyes and almost choking on my words, “but I believe this is my dance.”