Biba fearless, reckless, and shirtless.
Grant and Jon holding down the beat.
Molly and I with the best seats in the house.
A dog in every corner of the yard.
And with that, Biba danced. And I mean, she tore the front porch down, channeling an amazing amalgamation of James Brown, Robyn, and Edgar Winter.
We did this for an hour.
When it was time to stop, Biba cried and cried in futile, childhood protest.
I believe we all cried, too. But only on the inside, as we have learned not to cause a fuss. We have learned that the fun inevitably comes to an end and you have to go to bed.
How do you explain that logic to a kid? You can't, because if you think about it long enough, you find that it makes no sense.
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