Do you ever step on the tips of your dad's shoes, while he dances you around the kitchen floor?
Did you ever?
When you were very small?
I did.

I had a wonderful kind of dad.

Once, he won a trip to Paris . . . and he gave it to me, even though he had never been there. “Because you're the one who speaks French,” he said.

He was the kind of dad who would put whipped cream on your nose or an ice cube down your back. He planted trees, built houses, rescued animals, swam in lakes, shared his chocolate, cooked homemade soup, sang in the shower, and danced me on top of his feet.

Now I'm the grown-up. And my feet are too small to keep any child's feet on top of them for very long. But there is another kind of dancing that I love. It's the tap dancing of fingers on a keyboard to the music of a new idea.

My hands are small too, but they are big enough for my littlest son to set his hands upon them.

He sits on my lap expectantly, with each of his hands resting on mine, warmer than a glove, lighter than a snowflake.

As a story tap dances onto a blank page, he dances with me to the song of the muse, even though he cannot read. Even though he cannot hear.

Sometimes, it is enough to feel.