My other mother bends to collect something from the floor, her 88-year-old body folding in half, then righting itself easily.
It’s a quick, fluid movement, remarkable in its elegance. Her mobility is normally more halting; she uses a cane or walker.
I tease my other mother about trying yoga poses in the kitchen.
“I danced ballet; I was a gymnast,” she says, explaining her hidden agility.
We laugh, as I demonstrate why I flunked such graceful pursuits as a pre-teen.
“I wished I wasn’t old. I wanted to teach my granddaughters ballet,” she adds.
We examine a photo of her granddaughters, in sparkly outfits and solemn gaze, at a ballet recital.
We agree they’re lovely.
Now in their 20s, at college instead of ballet school, her granddaughters are smart and energetic, and move with an easy grace.
I am thankful to witness this elegance — in motion and in spirit — in all the women of this family.
I love them deeply, in all my awkwardness.