Most of my childhood summers were spent with my arthritic grandmother. I loved being with her. It was a win-win. She made me feel special, and I carried, ran errands, cleaned up. She didn't make me work too hard, though. Sometimes, she would even preface a request with the phrase, "I'll dance at your wedding." Never mind that I would do the task anyway. Never mind that we worshipped at an old-fashioned church that didn't approve of dancing. And never mind that if there were dancing at my wedding, she'd be doing well to walk to her seat.
Just the idea of my grandmother dancing, got me moving quickly to do whatever she wanted doing. The first time she said it, I remember asking, "Really, Marnie? You'd dance at my wedding?" I liked the idea of her being able to dance, and if putting her shoes in the closet or carrying the dirty clothes to the washing machine would help, I wanted to do my part.
When I finally did get married at age 33, Marnie had been dead eleven years. And there was no dancing at the ceremony or reception. But I like to think that maybe she was dancing in Heaven, with two strong, unbent legs, fulfilling a promise.
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