The contra dance in my part of the city has so much electricity running through its people that you could power an entire third-world country. They are young, smart, and nice, as my dad puts it; these are the people that will take control of this dying art when its originals start to fade away. I danced as much as I possibly could, collecting compliments and introductions, and my hair flying in my face served as a sufficient shield against those who creeped me out more than the average human does. The midway break rolled around, and I was enjoying too many peanut butter cookies in the corner, my father approached me, a strained expression staining his face. When I asked what was wrong, he responded, "My shoulder is..." He winced as his words faded away, faded away. "I can't stay."
The remnants of the internal energy lingered on our sweaty skin as we walked the mile home in suddenly 40 degree weather. We were not cold. When I asked what was causing all of this trouble with each shoulder, he told me, "I don't heal as quickly anymore." Add two months onto this whole situation: I'll be a teenager. Add thirty and I'll be the caller behind the microphone at some dance that people think I'm too old for because I still am wearing fedoras long after the craze. Add that thirty and my father will be slowly disappearing into the background, fading away...
Subtract thirty, please.
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