The Last DanceI just ran across this photo of the last time my father and I ever danced.  We danced in the Arocha Conservation Farm’s 100 year old barn.  I, newly married, he, losing a battle only he knew he was fighting to cancer that would have us at his funeral exactly 365 days after this photo was taken.  This photo was taken on the night of my wedding.  This photo was taken on my 30th birthday.  This photo was taken on my father’s birthday and this photo was taken on the first birthday my father and I ever knew we were celebrating together.  A few months prior he received information that allowed him and my mother to finally calculate his real birthday and not the one the social security office had given him when he became a US citizen.  His birthday, they discovered, was the same as mine.  I remember sitting in the chair, the same one in my living room now, in my basement bedroom in vancouver when they called to share the news.  It was the same chair I sat in to call and tell them I thought I’d be marrying Nate and the same chair I probably sat in to tell them that I wouldn’t be marrying him after all.  Except we did get married.  Except, had I known at the wedding that this would be my last dance with dad, I would have danced like I was enjoying myself, and I would have remembered the song.