You went in. You actually went in.
I watched you stand at the back for two songs, arms crossed, doing the grown-up thing where you pretend you are only here to check it out. I know that stance. That is the stance you did at the pool before you jumped.
Then the big drum part hit and something in you just said yes.
You threw yourself into all those elbows and shoulders like the world could not hurt you, and when you fell, a stranger's hand grabbed your shirt and yanked you back up before you even knew you were down. You laughed. Not the polite laugh. The real one. The one I have.
You are sweaty and your ears are ringing and tomorrow your neck will hurt and you do not care. You lost a shoe. You do not care about that either.
Remember when you said adults were boring? You promised me you would never sit still. I thought you broke that promise. I saw you at the desk, at the sink, in the long quiet car.
But here you are, bruised and grinning, being caught by people whose names you will never learn, catching them right back.
You still know how to run at something.
Do this more, okay?