The Song

The linoleum floor was worn in a specific pattern,

and when the song came on—

some old thing I hadn't heard in years—

I just started moving.

Not dancing. Not really.

My body was out of sync with the beat.

My arms didn't know where to go.

I was stepping on the wrong tiles,

my reflection in the dark window moving wrong,

joyful and terrible and exactly right.

Nobody laughed.

Nobody stopped me.

The song kept playing and I kept moving wrong

and something in my chest felt true for the first time all day.

This is what it means to be alive—

to move badly, to be off the beat,

to do it anyway while someone else's song plays

and your own body surprises you.