I sat with my feet under me, leaning against Jon on the big stuffed couch in the Round House at Pompanuck, the same place where Jon taught his writing class that morning.
Now it was a dance hall, a live Reggae band playing music that got people dancing. There were little kids and older couples. Me and Jon danced with each other and everyone else. Towards the end of the evening we watched the room empty out. There were only a few people left and the band played a song that made me want to get on my feet again.
But I didn’t get up. I was overcome with that shy, insecure feeling that stopped me from doing so much in my life. I knew if I was in my studio by myself I wouldn’t have been able to sit still. I wondered, how old do I have to be to dance and not care who’s watching.
Then I saw myself, white-haired and wrinkled, wearing a soft dress and leggings, dancing alone on the floor in front of me. I don’t want to wait that long, I though, I’m old enough now.
That’s when the little girl with the denim dress and striped leggings who was sitting next to us got up and danced by herself. Unselfconsciously moving around the dance floor. I sat on the couch, thinking someday I’ll be young enough again, not to care who’s watching me dance.