It never quite made sense to me, but maybe it's not supposed to. Here, my heels. There, my toes. One to the other and one to the next, and this is called walking. And this way it's called dancing. And this way it's called running.
And stand right here and feel the water, cold and cold and cold and squirming I reemerge, my breath barely able to contain my laugh.
And here are stockings, they go on like this, bunched and then stretched until the legs are consumed. "Oh no, it's up to my toe," I'd sing, remembering. "Oh, gee, it's up to my knee." And you would look at me and smile, and I think you weren't sure if I was remembering it or living it again.
And that's fine. That's fine.
Most of my clothes are easy and comfortable, but one pair of shoes you gave me specially. They lift my heels off the ground and wrap around the ankles. They're not supposed to get wet, you said. But what's the fun in that.
So we move like this, and it's running. And it's dancing. And that noise is our laughter. And it's perfect.