My body remembers the movement to old music.

Dancing by the big window on the third floor at lunch.

I loaned you one of my skirts.

Turns and turns.

I taught you steps.

It feels so long ago those Friday evenings when it was just you and me.

Or those nighttime walks with the pups that turned into dance sessions and impromptu choreography.

I hear old songs and I’m taken back to rehearsals with the girls.

Five, six, seven, eight.

Not a one, two, three, four.

It’s a kick, ball-change, followed by a turn clap clap.

We made notes on the paper table cloth as we ate crepes and drank coffee.

A group will enter here, she’ll have a solo there, everyone will come together in the chorus.

Do you remember the one where we jumped off the stage?

Or how about the one where we moved like skeletons?

I loved the one where I made you tutus and I can’t forget the one where I made you wings.

Sometimes I remember the one where we all cried. Oh, there were a few of those.

And sometimes the songs and movements just blend into a dance that has spanned decades.

It never ends, just goes on and on, song after song.