The clatter of my shoes on the floor, my feet a blur of one-two-threes, firstly on the spot, then advancing towards Lucas and Isabelle, retiring, advancing, retiring. We do that twice. Or maybe ten times. It’s hard to keep track.

Iris takes my hand and leads off to the left, more one-two-threes, then back so we’re facing Isabelle and Lucas again before we head off to the right, repeat, and return.

Iris is the only one of us who is not mouthing one-two-three under her breath.

But despite the various impediments—my silent concentration on the fancy footwork and trying not to pant with exertion, keeping up with the beat of the music and doing my best not to inflict injury on my fellow dancers—it appears that I am moving in time to music.

I am dancing.

Now, Iris and I are facing a different couple. I have no idea where Isabelle and Lucas are. I glance around. Everywhere, people have arranged themselves into foursomes and are dancing the “Walls of Limerick.” Craning their necks to look at us if they think they’re not doing it properly.

The insistent beat of the music fills me like a glass until it is overflowing and spilling around me. Thoughts explode in my mind like fireworks. Mostly I think about Iris. How happy she looks, how present she is in this moment that she has conjured in her effortless way. Iris shouts dance and everybody dances. Even Dad. Even the surly barmaid is one-two-three-ing behind the counter.

I suppose some people might call it charisma. But it’s more than that, I think. It’s...vitality. There’s something vital about Iris Armstrong. As if the world is turning because she has told it to.

Now I’m dancing with a bald, angular man sporting a twirly moustache.

Now I’m dancing with a stooped, elderly woman dripping in pearls.

Now I’m dancing with Isabelle and not even worrying about her bare toes.

I can’t believe I used to wonder why people enjoy dancing so much.

The room throbs with the heave and stamp of dancers, the music rolling through me like a child rolls down a grassy hill. Gaining momentum and shouting with the sheer pleasure of it.

Back in the center of the floor, I meet Iris again, who arranges our arms so they’re interlocked. We twirl, first on the spot, then moving around the floor, the crowd parting to let us through, my skirt fanning around my bare legs, the colors merging together so that I am a blur of colors, a spinning top.

Iris releases me and I spin away from her. I am unspooling, like thread. My arms are outstretched and my face is tilted up and my eyes are closed, none of which is best practice when it comes to conventional Irish dancing, I am certain. Here I am, spinning, and my head is spinning and the room is spinning and the world is spinning and it is glorious, this spinning sensation.

I think I laugh out loud.