I once had a friend who taught me always to listen for waltzes in unexpected places.
One two three.
We danced a waltz. I didn’t know how. I danced anyway, apologizing with each misstep. I learned this way. Oh, how we laughed with every stumble.
Two two three.
I moved away. It was a mistake I’d learn later. It was a mistake for me, for no one else. Another misstep. My toes crushing my other toes. No apologies necessary.
Three two three.
I sobbed for hours when I learned that a fire had forced my waltzing instructor out of this world. No more breaths left to count. This was a mistake, like any other. The record skipped and just stopped. Right there. Waltzers stopped and howled at the unfairness of it. Then I made so many more mistakes. But I learned that way.
Four two three.
I still listen to every song like it might be a waltz. Sometimes I dance. Sometimes the weight of knowing squashes me down, and holds me too tight. The record ends. I restart it.
One two three.