Christmas lights packed away. A cold fire in the woodstove. A ballerina in a red tutu on YouTube, telling a thin story on the tips of her toes. But your laugh is huge, and I lift you in time to the lifts on the video.
"You can stand up," you say, because I'm on my knees.
"It's easier this way," I say.
And I lift you over my head, goofy and to the side, your legs posed in a figure 4, and your laugh is huge.
Sometimes, when I leave for work in the morning, you won't kiss me goodbye. Sometimes, when I come home from work in the evening, you scream, "Daddy! Daddy!" and then suddenly, "No, stop, I need space!" and then you put out your hand, palm facing me, like a traffic cop.
But then there are times, like tonight, when we dance together. You run to your room--"Come with me!" you shout--and we change you into your poofy red dress so that you match the YouTube ballerina. "My pink tights can go under," you say.
We run back to the living room. Your mom is on the couch, three guest-room pillows stacked under her sprained ankle. A friend texts her, "How's your foot?"
"Lift me!" you say.
Manners don't matter on the livingroom dance floor. "Please" and "thank you" are less important than feeling the music and matching the movements onscreen. You smile and close your eyes confidently. You spin and stumble and stand back up. And, from my knees, I lift you on cue.
