I went for a walk in the park in the early morning gloom, stepping over broken branches, and when I emerged from the thick cluster of dark trees, I saw an old man lift an old woman from her wheelchair. When the man had her standing, the birds quieted as if they, too, were anxiously watching. She leaned against him like a small, thin tree about to blow over, but he was tall and sturdy, and he put her quivering hand on top of his shoulder and wrapped his arm around her thin waist. They stood like this for a long time.
He reached into his coat pocket and music poured out as if he were a bright beam of melody. Slowly, carefully, they began to dance not to the music’s beat but to some other rhythm that seemed to come from their merged bodies, a deep ancient song their bodies knew and perhaps invented years ago. I watched from the edge of the woods, not moving, not making a sound. They danced until her frail body collapsed on his old frame, and if he were to step away, she’d crumple to the ground. He lifted her up, swept her right off her feet, and I imagined them as newlyweds fifty, sixty years ago, him sweeping her up, both of them young and their young bodies vibrating because they’d found each other and had promised each other this moment unfolding in front of me. He set her down in the wheelchair so gently as if holding treasure and rolled her down the path, music playing from his coat pocket.
