“Bubby, what do you do all day?” asks my eight-year-old granddaughter. This is the same child who, when I told her I hope to dance at her children’s weddings, told me in no uncertain terms, “You won’t be alive by then.”
For a moment, I’d been taken aback, but I’d quickly regained my composure. “How do you know?” I countered. “Maybe I will!”
Realizing that perhaps she had overstepped the bounds of propriety, she backtracked. “Well,” she said, “you’ll still be too old to dance!”
I didn’t tell her my dancing days are already rapidly fading. “So I’ll sit on a chair in the middle of the circle and you’ll dance around me,” I said.
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