It's a Fool Who Dances

I turned to the blue-eyed waitress and confided that watching People do their Dances makes me sad. On the street in front of us, other people's dads were tip-toeing and grinning like tree spirits in summer blue. I bet her that if my dad were there, he would dress in one of those little blue outfits, too, and celebrate the 1587 opening of Tokushima Castle with just as much sprightly agility as those small-kneed fathers could.

My father's knees are bigger than theirs were. My dad's were made for polka, and that's our dance, but in the end, everyone's knees are the same at their core. That's the important thing.

Some people dance in street festivals with their daughters and sons, and others save it for weddings. Some people practice their dances from the time they are little, and others have to fake it with their dads after three Oktoberfest beers. Both ways are OK, and in the end, there's not much to be sad about.