The lemon cucumbers looked especially good today. She reached a gnarled hand slowly toward the display and cradled one round, spiny vegetable in her palm, drawing it into her cart. It had been a long time since she'd had a cucumber sandwich, and longer still since she'd had one with a touch of the spicy cranberry jelly that he'd introduced to her. Holding on to the handle of the cart, she moved slowly up toward the end of the produce aisle. Her feet, as always, ached and she had to move slowly, stretching now and then in a futile attempt to ameliorate the pain shooting from her hip to her knee. She liked to imagine that she still had some grace. Everything is a dance, she remembered him saying back in the days before Martha Graham was a household name, before the Alexander Technique became just another module in a student's schedule. Everything is a dance. And even now, decades later, she was mindful, knew where her feet was and could feel the floor through them, knew the hum of theater in the people around her. She no longer leaped across half a stage from one partner to another, but she danced with every iota of her being, with her fingers, now feathering across the fennel, with her cart as she moved to let a younger woman pass.
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