White dress with pastel floral print, shaped as it would have been 50
years ago: narrow waist and flared calf-length skirt. Below it, skinny
legs and graceful feet.
Her back straight, the thin frame of her body seeming too slight to
support the weight of the old-fashioned thick glasses (just like the ones
my grandmother used to wear) perched on the bridge of her nose.
Silent she comes across as prim and proper – a sharp mouth under
brows ready to frown and disapprove – the very picture of an
elderly dance teacher.
Speaking, her eyes light up, smile ready as she talks of her ongoing
studies, her pre-retirement career (in mathematics), the music, her friends.
Dancing, she flies. Her feet so light, slender body moving with a
grace I suspect surpasses even that which she possesed in youth. As if the years
that burned away her flesh and left just skin and bones condensed it into
elegant moving purpose, every inch of her perfectly aligned and poised just so.
Making it look easy the way only skill and years of practice can – as if she is moved by the music, not moving to it.
Seen from across the room she shines among the dancers, projecting the image of a
young delicate woman, lithe and light-footed, easily overshadowing her actual physical appearance.
Experience and skill making visible outside who she is on the inside. Wow!
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