Dancing With Dad

“Come on then, you’re turn now,” my father put out his hand to me and smiled, having first made sure Mum was comfortable sitting with my Aunt and my sisters, “let’s see what you remember from last week.”

As my handsome dad, with his jet black hair swirled me round the dancefloor in an attempt to teach me the waltz, homework, friendship concerns, and all the survival stuff of school, melted away and, having looked forward eagerly to these precious moments, I now concentrated only on the steps, while dad whispered , “one, two, three,” over and over in my ear.

Every Sunday evening we joined other Parishioners, mostly Irish, like one big family, at the Hay Lane Catholic Club, which was packed to the rafters and where, I’m convinced more Guinness was drunk here than in Dublin itself. Proud to be dancing with my dad, and striving as I was to be as brilliant with him as mum was, the two of us meanwhile laughed together and enjoyed ourselves so much that the good feeling of everything being right with the world seemed to seep into my bones.

Dad died six years ago, and it was many years before that I’d last danced with him, but these memories, rather than fading, seem to be as clear to me now as back then — when I trod on his toes, when he patiently and kindly waited for me to learn, when he let me have some of his Guinness, when we’d finally danced the whole song without me making any mistakes and he lifted me up and kissed my forehead, and if I close my eyes and breathe deeply I can smell the beer, the smoke, the sweat of that lost time.

Though things didn’t stay that good between us, much as I wished they would, and though I’m sad that I didn’t make more of an effort to be closer to him, I am , nevertheless, so grateful and thank God for these fond memories of a happier time.