There’s a dance craze erupting within our very bones. Foreign rhythms are involuntarily taking control over our every movement.
Sometimes a jig, a heated tango, a monotonous slow dance and most consistently: the twist. All of it completely free form.
We’ve welcomed a tiny member to our dance troupe and, as beginners, are all scrambling to create cohesive and entertaining routines. With the blindly curated choreography emerges a corresponding soundtrack – our crystal clear voices.
He sings in mother tongue, oozing playful coos that are written in his cells, his ancestor’s cells with inimitable love.
Her melodies are joyful, silly, angelic, unexpected and unrehearsed. We offer our approval, nudging her along with constant laughter, while dancing in circles of adoration around her.
The footing of my new, yet innate, swaying is accompanied with soprano melodies, sighs of relief, groans as I relinquish leading the way, duets with my daring partner, hushed whispers of lullabies and finally sweet silence… the quiet between performances… the rest… the pause before we dive in to the next number… again and again.