by letting her out of the house that night. Others, innocent people, were hurt by my failure. I couldn’t take that chance with you. You might hate me for my decision, but I am grateful that you are alive to hate me. I take consolation in that.
I looked inside the safe for the book my father had written about in his letter. It was thin and lay flat against the back of the safe. I brought it out. On the cover was the picture of a little girl dancing alone in a field of flowers. The title read:
THE DANCE
by Robert Book
I took the book over to my father’s bed and lay down to read. I opened it to the dedication page.
For Noel.
Never stop dancing.
I wiped a tear from my cheek, then began to read.
A father once had a daughter.
She was a happy little girl who liked the things that little girls do—dress-ups and kittens and sometimes both together. But most of all she liked to dance.
Nearly every day she would jump and spin in the thick, wild grass near the edge of the yard where the tall meadow flowers grew. Though she didn’t see him, her father watched.
And he smiled.
When the girl was old enough to go to school, she danced in the Thanksgiving play, dressed as an ear of corn. She could not see out of her costume very well and tripped over a boy dressed as a carrot. Though she could not see her father, he was watching.
And he smiled.
When the girl was a little older, she took dance lessons. She wore a pink tutu and soft leather ballet slippers. At her first recital she tried very hard to remember her steps. She did not see her father standing close to the stage.
But he was smiling.
A few years later the girl became a graceful ballerina. She wore pink satin toe shoes with long shiny ribbons. One year she danced a solo in The Nutcracker. Everyone clapped when she finished. The crowd was large, and the stage lights were bright so the girl could not see her father in the audience. But he clapped louder than everyone else.
And he smiled wider than everyone else.
The girl grew into a young woman. One spring night she put on a beautiful gown and high-heeled pumps and went to her first prom with a young man. When the young man brought her home, they did not see her father peeking out the window as they slow-danced on the front porch.
(He wasn’t smiling.)
The young woman fell in love with the young man and soon decided to marry. At the end of the wedding day she waltzed with her father. Then the father gave his girl’s hand to the young man and left the dance floor. As the young woman gazed into her new husband’s eyes, she did not see her father watching from the side of the room.
Though the father’s eyes were moist, he smiled.
The young woman and her new husband moved far away from the home with the thick grass and tall meadow flowers. Whenever he missed his daughter, the father would take out an old shoebox filled with photographs of her dancing. As he looked at the pictures, he remembered each dance.
And he smiled.
Many years passed.
One day the father called his daughter on the telephone. “I am old now. I am cold and very tired,” he said. “Please come to me. I would like to see you dance just one more time.”
The daughter came. She found her father in his bed. And she danced for him.
But the father did not smile.
“I cannot see you,” he said. “My eyes are not much good. Dance close to the bed so I can hear your feet.” The woman walked close to the bed, then she jumped and spun as she had as a little girl.
The father smiled.
Then the woman sat on her father’s bed. She lay her face against his, took his hand, and they swayed back and forth. In this way, they danced once more.
“I have danced many times,” the woman whispered into her father’s ear, “in many places and for many people. But I have always danced for you. How can I ever dance again?” She buried her head in her father’s chest.
But her father shook his head. “You must never stop dancing,” he said. “For though you will not see me, whenever you dance, I will be watching.”
Then the father went to sleep.
As the daughter sadly left his side, she stopped at