The Night My Dad Danced

My father has never danced in his life. At family weddings, he stands near the bar, holding a drink, nodding to the music. We stopped asking years ago.

At my cousin's quinceañera this spring, the DJ played "La Bamba." My father put down his drink, walked into the middle of the dance floor, and started dancing. Badly. Enthusiastically. With his arms up.

The whole family stopped and stared. Then my mother ran out and joined him, laughing, and so did all of us. My grandmother clapped from her chair.

Afterwards, I asked him why, after sixty-six years. He shrugged and said, "I felt like it." That's all he'd say. But he danced again at the next wedding, and the one after that. I think he finally discovered he likes it.