Even in her old age, her fingers are lithe and graceful, dancing across the phrases of the music like the crest of a wave. It is as if she is one with the music; although she hardly moves, it is as if she and the melody are locked in the embrace of a powerfully intoxicating rhythm, a dance for two. Swaying slightly back and forth in her wheelchair with the long beats and the gentle melodies, she coaxes from the old, creaky piano new life that never before existed. The birds sing merrily along outside, a ways away from the window―just beyond her sight.

It’s a shame, she thinks. She was once able to move her feet with the notes, too, but the time for sweeping movements of arms and legs are gone now. Although years have passed since she last laid a delicate hand on the familiar wooden barre of the ballet studio, the memories haven’t faded in the slightest―her body remembers how it felt to slide her feet across the floor, carefully control the curve of her arm and her back as the sounds surrounded her. She remembers the sight of hundreds of red roses falling at her feet like snow every night, her whole self illuminated by the blue-tinted stage lights. It was beautiful, the best time of her life―ended suddenly by an unexpected accident.

She’s lived a full life since then; she’s done a lot more with these hands than move through music. These thin, wrinkled hands have proved others wrong, nursed her children, raised gardens full of vegetables, cooked thousands of meals, played countless piano tunes, written endless letters, and driven cars, trucks, and planes. With them, she learned how to love after the devastating accident. These hands gave her strength, and now they give her solace. She’s proud of them, age spots and all.

Soundlessly, she continues her pas de deux.

—By Victoria C., 18, Alberta, Canada