Hittin' It

His rhythm echoed through the studio, sending intricate vibrations over the floor and up through the stairwell. I could hear every individual tap as his foot hit the floor. The rhythm so familiar, the steps began to play out in my own head as I made my way past the girls gym, the sound of the dozen basketballs creating a simple bass line for the increasingly complex rhythm now reaching my ears. My toes ached to be free of my tight heels and in my beloved well worn pair of taps. Ba dop ba da ba domp ba da ba da ba da da domp, resistance is futile, I pause in the hallway and click out the beat in my black patent leathers with a basketball chorus. Three repeats and a break and I manage to satisfy the initial craving long enough to shed out of school clothes into a more comfortable pair of jeans, t-shirt and ankle socks, and race down the single flight of stairs and make a flying leap into the studio. He doesn't stop despite my loud introduction. It simply enhances his determination. He's no longer stationary as I'd assumed. His warmup complete, the steps increase in pace and complexity as he makes his way around the floor. Step, stamp, slide, riff, slide. He's picked up a few new steps from a master. Quick percussive turns take him in a full circle around the room and I sit in quiet appreciation of his immense talent and ability, my jealousy at bay. My own shoes seem determined to prevent me from joining the game playing out before me. With each additional knot in the laces my own frustration at not being on my feet increases. The frustration teaming in me appears to be mirrored in each stamp echoing about the room. I can nearly predict what step comes next before it begins, despite his improvising. The simple pitter patter has grown into a detailed dance, and I am undecided as to who is winning this quarter, emotion or focus. Finally, my laces give way and I'm on my feet. Improv was never my forte, but I watch and listen intently, waiting to find his pattern, to feel where the steps are coming from. He hasn't stopped, not once, and his breathing is heavier, yet his energy only seems to increase. Finally I catch his beat, his rhythm, and join in. Our combined efforts bouncing off the walls complimenting one another. The steps are different yet the goal is the same. Two different dances set to the same music, life. For this one moment it's just us. Hitting out a rhythm all our own. Hitting, hitting, hitting. No one's better than the other, age difference is gone, no sibling rivalry. It's just the taps. Who knows where it will end. Dancing side by side silently acknowledging and appreciating the other. No need for words, we just dance. Faster, slower, simple, complicated, on it goes, complimenting the other. We know the step before the other suggests it. Inevitably, his smile breaks, the concentration steady, the joy seaps through. No longer tight faced and focused, tapping has done the trick and the problem is solved. But we keep going, joy and excitement encouraging us onward. The thrill removes all sense of fatigue and previous worry. The stress of the day is gone and all other challenges will find a solution at a later time. Hittin' it, hittin' it. The happy beat bounces up the stairwell. The school could have assembled in the small room and we'd never have noticed. Just Josh and I...tapping.

I roll over and close my eyes, praying I can pick up where I left off, sending a quiet thank you for the visit. At least in my dreams we still have dance.  

My brother Joshua found joy in everything he did, but when trouble seemed to strike, it wasn't odd to find him dancing to relieve stress. Josh tapped everywhere; grocery lines, under his desk during class, walking down the hall, around the house, in the shower,...everywhere. I considered myself fortunate when I could join in, although he tended to dance circles around me. I know he's still dancing with me no matter where he is.