Waiting in Line for the Dance
Can you see the string of lights before me like a snaking line of pilgrims awaiting entrance to the holy city? Only the torches we bear are just our tail-lights. And the donkeys we rode to get here? Are sedans, SUVs and minivans. Our temple? The local public middle school. The high holy days? The midwinter dance.
We'll be back in two hours to wait for another twenty minutes to pick up our pilgrims as they shiver outside in their inappropriate-for-the-weather formal dresses, texting us wondering how soon we'll be to the door to transport them back to their upstairs bedrooms where they will close the door and text messages to the boys they didn't talk to at the dance and more texts to the girls who have secrets about the other girls who did things that no one would have ever imagined.