The ferry from the Outer Hebrides was late, so I pulled up a chair with some older Scots on the porch of a pub. We talked and laughed and swatted midges, enjoying the rare glimpse of sun down by the docks. As we whiled away the time, four tiny girls in tiny dresses appeared and started dancing in the street, trad music reeling out of an old speaker their moms had set up. They’re whirling around, kicking up gravel, and we’re clapping and cheering and losing ourselves and the old woman next to me, she says, “Oh, I love this song. This song, this was my favorite.”
And she gets up with the four tiny girls and her feet flying along with them, her body remembering the movement that her mind has surely forgotten. Her hair’s fanning silver in the sea breeze as she twirls, breaths coming swift and certain as her smile. I sat, struck and silent, sure it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
And then, the music ended. The speakers were packed away. The little girls pulled on their hoodies, and their mothers whisked them off down the street. The old woman came back to the table, folding arthritic limbs back into her chair as conversation eased back around us.
I saw her on the ferry later, standing alone at the stern. She watched the sun slip below the islands we’d just left, her gaze far off and strange. I turned and left her, creeping back to my seat, but I still catch myself thinking of her in quiet, uncomplicated moments.
I hope she is still dancing.
Chelsey Cook 