Dance with Me by Anne McMaster

It has stayed with me since; this memory of connection – this togetherness.
Was it the moment, he music and nothing more?
I turn to Google and the history of dance.
Do French people dance? it asks me. Google, my friend, I will answer you, I reply.
The French, as it turns out, have danced for a very long time.

The Gavotte – lines of circles made up of pairs
switching effortlessly between each other with a little hop.
The Tourdion – another hop – and a little livelier now – with a slight kick,
the Bal-Musette (its music still played on the streets of Paris) and
the Farandole with a skip – and a hop – in every other step.

Dance is our body’s language. Moving in and back. Down, across and through.
Observing and relating. Guiding. Matching each another. Sharing a mutual space.
Careful observation enhancing and expressing our intricate connection.
Coming to know each other in the space that we are.

And this is what is gone.

I cannot hug you now. Brush casually past you with a quick apology,
hold your hand to tell you everything will be ok.
Lean in to whisper. Touch your fingers. Shake your hand. Gently pat your arm.
I judge a stranger based on the distance they maintain.
I smile at friends I once would have pulled so close to my heart.
My steps through a store have become as intricate
as any Regency Cotillion, Quadrille or the Waves of Tory.
I step towards you – and you step back.

Yes, something has carved a space within us.
We resonate hollow, now, as we have never done before;
we are as slow, mournful tolling bells. But we hear each other ring.