Last Dance... Last Chance...

My father was a gruff¹ man. I couldn’t remember the last time he had tenderly stroked my cheek, tousled² my hair, or used a term of endearment when calling my name. His diabetes had given him a short temper, and he screamed a lot. I was envious when I saw other fathers plant gentle kisses on their daughters’ foreheads or impulsively give them a big bear hug. I knew that he loved me and that his love was deep. He just didn’t know how to express it.

It was hard to say “I love you” to someone who didn’t say it back. After so many disappointing times when I would flinch from his sharp rebuff, I began to withdraw my own warm displays of affection. I stopped reaching out or hugging or kissing him. At first this act of self-restraint was conscious. Later it would become automatic, and finally it was ingrained³. The love between us ran strong, but silent.

One rare evening out, when my mother had successfully coaxed my usually asocial⁴ father to join us for a night in the town, we were sitting in an elegant restaurant that boasted a small but lively band. When it struck up a familiar waltz tune, I glanced at my father. He suddenly appeared small and shrunken⁵ to me, not powerful and intimidating as I had always perceived him.

All the old hurts welled up inside, but I decided to dare one last time.

“Dad! You know, I’ve never ever danced with you. Even when I was a little girl, I begged you, but you never wanted to! How about right now?”

I waited for the usual brusque⁶ reply that would once again slice my heart into ribbons. But instead, he considered me thoughtfully, and then a surprising twinkle appeared in his eye. “I have been remiss⁷ in my duties as a father, then.” he uncharacteristically joked. “Let’s hit the floor, and I’ll show you just what kind of moves an old geezer⁸ like me still can make!”

My father took me in his arms. Since earliest childhood, I hadn’t been enfolded in his embrace. I felt overcome by emotion.

As we danced, I looked up at my father intently, but he avoided my gaze. His eyes swept the dance floor, the other diners, and the members of the band. His scrutiny⁹ took in everyone and everything but me. I felt that he must already be regretting his decision to join me for a dance he seemed uncomfortable being physically close to me.

“Dad!” I finally whispered, tears in my eyes. “Why is it so hard for you to look at me?” At last his eyes dropped to my face and he studied me intently. “Because I love you so much,” he whispered back. “Because I love you.” I was struck dumb by his response. It wasn’t what I had anticipated. But it was, of course, exactly what I needed to hear. His own eyes were misty and he was blinking.

I had always known that he loved me I just hadn’t understood that his vast emotion had frightened him and made him mute. His taciturn¹⁰ manner hid the deep emotions flowing inside.

“I love you, too, Dad,” I whispered back softly. He stumbled over the next few words, “I ... I’m sorry that I’m not demonstrative.” Then he said, “I’ve realized that I don’t show what I feel. My parents never hugged or kissed me, and I guess I learned how not to from them. It’s ... it’s ... hard for me. I’m probably too old to change my ways now, but just know how much I love you.”“Okay,” I smiled.

When the dance ended, I brought Dad back to Mom waiting at the table and excused myself to the ladies’ room. I was gone just a few minutes, but during my absence, everything changed.

There were screams and shouts and scrapings of chairs as I made my way back across the room. I wondered what the commotion was all about. As I approached the table, I saw it was all about Dad. He was slumped¹¹ in his chair, ashen gray. A doctor in the restaurant rushed over to handle the emergency, and an ambulance was called, but it was really all too late. He was gone. Instantly, they said.

What had suddenly made me -- after so many years of steeling myself against his constant rejection -- ask him to dance? What had made him accept? Where had those impulses come from? And why now?

In the restaurant that night, all I saw was his slumped body and ashen face, surrounded by solemn diners and grim-faced paramedics¹². But it’s a totally different scene that I remember now. I remember our waltz on the dance floor and his sudden urgent confession to me. I remember him saying “I love you” and my saying it back.

And as I remember this scene, somehow, incongruously¹³ the words of an old Donna Summer song tap out a refrain in my mind: Last dance ... last chance ... for love ...

It was indeed the first, last, and only dance that I ever had with my father. What a blessing that we had the chance to say -- before it was too late -- the three words that live on forever, long after we are gone, stretching into eternity.