Dance of ages

Wispy blond hair barely reached the nape of a pale neck. Big blue eyes rimmed with black lashes showed no differentiation, definition of gender. I was jealous of the pure androgynous beauty. Everyone stared at him and smiled.

I first saw him on the dance floor, in another woman’s arms, the expression on his flawless face mystified and delighted. I envied the love apparent between them.

Later he sat drumming with the rest of them, on the floor, on throw pillows, on a peopled couch, African drums competing with Armenian music blasting from the speakers on a candle lit table. The hardwood floor was slippery in socks. I went outside for a moment of air and he was up and dancing by the time I returned to the room of sweaty, swaying bodies. I joined in, jumping, turning, stomping as he dominated the inner circle.

Then I was alerted to the puffy sleeves, a detail I thought a touch sexist, but suddenly he was a she. Maybe a little older than one year, her stomped steps uncertain, her whole body engulfed in the beat, her tiny body was electrified with life. Two other kids circled around her, gyrating hips and spinning on their tushes and spasmodically jumping and swaying and throwing their heads back to laugh.

We adults didn’t stop to stare and say ‘how cute’ and pick up a toddler when they fell over laugh-crying. 
We danced. We couldn’t not dance. We filled the room with love and heat and the joy of being able to jump and touch and clap. The kids ran in and out of the party, they ran around the dark backyard watching fire dancers and the moon. Adults of all ages did the same. For a moment I forgot how old I was. I saw the little girl in front of me clapping and swaying and she was me, I was her, we were sisters, I was her mother or she was mine. There was no age or time. Just the flow of music ebbing over us all. Sure it sounds New Agey. It sounds all hippie. It sounds like I was drunk or stoned or crazy. 
I wasn’t. I was just in my element. In my people. Young, old, and everything ageless in between.