The notes are bouncing around us, and we run.
We run down front to the throng of people, my husband 30, and me not-quite-30. The group’s energy is pulsing, younger than we are, but we run down anyway. It’s all moving and the song is swelling, and it’s so alive, and we’re lost in the music. For a beat I forget that I’m at the Pinewood Bowl in little Lincoln, Nebraska, as I’m part of the Mumford and Son’s bigger song, Little Lion Man, and there’s a dance in me that just has to get out and meet the music, and I’m not a dancer.
We should be getting tired, and we’re not. Instead, we’re dancing and screaming lyrics, and my thoughts flit away to my desire to hold onto this, to be in this here, this now forever.
But, eventually the song stops, the band packs up, and garbage is strewn about the packed down grass. But a song was there, and we were a part of it, and even though it can’t last, we’ll have it in our minds, and when I pull it up on YouTube, I’m back at the PineWood bowl dancing with my hubby to more than a song. For it’s not the dancing that I want to hold onto, or the beat, or the venue. I loved the with. I loved the this. But I can always step back knowing, I’m not alone, but with. I can always step back and say what I was saying right then, that this, this is what I’ve been waiting for.