For Regan

Summer rain makes the night beautiful, and the city is ready, eager, skipping in line to start the festival. We walk, cloaked, through crowds and past restaurants, we pause to cross the street, our conversation casual, our hard heels clicking on concrete and heads turning, eyes glancing as we pass. At our destination, we are ushered in to a private room, where we pause only a moment in preparation; everything feels frictionless, fluid, nothing goes wrong, cash on arrival, everyone polite, the staff well informed and calm...

But the crowd, the crowd were not calm.

They were cheering from the moment you entered the room, nearly on their feet, whooping and crying out with delight. They understood what they were seeing, and what they gave back was the unfiltered energy of celebration. I don't even know what they were celebrating, I was only told this was a Greek party. It seemed like there were multiple guests of honour, as you were drawn into the crowd with this gentleman, or that lady, to share the simple wonder of a coloured shawl, and a shaking hip.

I felt almost invisible; honoured to be asked to drum for you again, I watch the brightening faces of the crowd follow you as you dance from shadow into light, between tables and back again to the dance floor. They wriggle in their seats, they love to clap and to shout, and they are really good at it. They listen, they feel, they let the music run through them, I can see it all from where I sit on the edge of your light.

On the edge of your light.