He rolls his wheelchair toward me, seeking eye contact. I read his lips: “dance.” Duty propels me off my cajón in the middle of “Oh Susannah.” While our volunteer band plays on, I grasp the wheelchair’s arms. Push and pull. Dancing. I sing along, but Kevin left his voice in Vietnam. Again he mouths “dance,” but I joke that the band needs me. Next up is “Buffalo Gals” and I screw up, distracted by images of a younger Kevin dancing by the light of the moon. With his girlfriend, his daughter, his mother. My time is all over the place.
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"Classic"
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