Tonight the dishes sat piled in the sink and the laundry went unfolded.

Netflix went untouched and the couch sat empty.

The chicken coop was closed by our neighbours and the horses’ water was filled by them, too.

Because tonight we danced.

Tonight we dropped both girls off for the first time to stay the night at my mom’s, and raced back to the campground where we would spend the night.

And if it weren’t for the freshly updated tent with the poles that were’t broken or the queen size air mattress covering the rocky ground, and if it weren’t for the Dora pillowcase and me wearing a stinky nursing bra and denim maternity pants, I could have sworn it was just like it had been ten years ago, you and I.

When ten years ago we would up and leave on a weekend adventure, spontaneously, just you and I.

And though we couldn’t be spontaneous this time, it was no less exciting.

Because tonight we danced.

Beer in hand and hair down, we left our worries and our income at the door, as we entered the Shore Club to dance at the show. And if it weren’t for the fact that it was your father’s gig and we’d heard the songs a million times, it would have felt like we were just dating again, you and I.

There was sand in my hair from our day at the beach, and dirt on my feet from building the campfire, and tonight I felt free.

Because tonight we danced.

Tonight I wasn’t beside you in the kitchen, hands covered in soap suds and passing you plastic lunch containers, which can be our usual romance at home.

Tonight I wasn’t hurriedly taking sleepers off the line to put on the baby as the sun went down and the clothes grew damp once more.

Tonight at ten pm, we were just a couple on the town, as far as anyone else could see, as we were ten years ago. And that was an exciting feeling.

And tonight, like years ago, I had the capacity to not just look at you, but to really see you, as other people watched us on the dance floor.

Tonight, like years ago, I had the capacity to not just hear you, but to really listen, as I laughed so hard I cried after a funny joke as we ate burnt hot dogs at the campfire.

Tonight, for all intensive purposes, apart from the grey hair and the Birkenstock sandals, I was 19 again, drunk off beer and sunshine, and without a care.

Because tonight we danced.

Stumbling back to the tent we held hands and the simple act of having reached out to each other physically and emotionally on this hot July evening felt momentous.

The act of having turned off our phones, though I told my mom we wouldn’t, felt necessary.

And although it was only eleven o’clock when we called it a night, and not 3am as had been our custom ten years ago, I went to sleep equally exhausted but smiling- because we didn’t have to be caring about anyone else’s needs but our own.

Because tonight we danced, I remembered how it feels to be alive for us, and not for them.

Because tonight we danced, I remembered who we are.

And I loved having that reminder.

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Photo by Crissie Brenton