We move like mirrors, haunting the space with our motion, our bodies free and flailing and loose. I’m pulled to tap my father on the shoulder, to try to say to him, I wish we could always be this open, but I don’t know either of us have the words. So instead, we build each other a small world, our solos swelling, rising like a chorus, forward as he goes back, back as he goes forward, our hands to our chest in reverence, building a church with our rhythm, a place we don’t have to explain, a place where we can be honest and true; Godlike, even. A place we can both surrender.
