"Dancing in the produce section."(Kevin Hughes) I don’t know where to start. People always say: “Start at the beginning.” But where was the Beginning. I suppose it all started at her Prom. I mean she was so beautiful. I know she knew what I thought she looked like, because my not breathing with wide eyes and a flush on my neck, kinda broadcast my inability to speak. She reached up on her toes and gave me a peck on the cheek.

“I hope you always look at me like that.”

And I did. For thirty nine more years. Years that flew by. Other than the way our love for each other deepened every year …we weren’t much different than any other couple. We grew up. We had children. We bought a house. We moved up in our Careers. We took the time to be good Parents. When the last of our four children left home…for good- we sold the house. We cruised several times a year. Finally, we bought a small house on a half acre near our old hometown.

A year later…she was gone. Fifty nine years old. We had so many plans. I held her hand during those last frightening hours. She spoke only once before she died. She opened her eyes, pulled me close, and as I leaned in to hear her words softly puffing against my cheek, I couldn’t help but cry. She whispered to me , the strain of the effort it took to speak colored every word:

“Promise me... you will love again. Promise me.”

I did. It wasn’t really a promise, it was just that I couldn’t deny her anything. Not then. Not before. Not ever. I cherished her words, but they had little meaning to me.

Until…

*****

“Can you dance?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“For what?”

I was already confused. So I answered honestly.

“For not understanding your question.”

Her face crinkled up in an impish place to put a grin on.

“Is English not your first language?”

“What?”

She laughed out loud. I couldn’t help it. I laughed back.

“I asked you if you could dance?”

I looked around…looked back at her. I had regained my wits.

“Here? Now? In front of the rutabagas and zucchinis?

This time she laughed.

“No, I don’t usually dance in the produce section at the Grocery Store. But I do dance. So I ask you again: Do you dance?”

My face fell. She must have noted it right away. She put her hand lightly on my shoulder.

“I’m so sorry. Did I trigger a bad memory?”

I looked down into her eyes. They were bright, shiny, almost wet looking. She knew she had said something that hurt…she just didn’t know why.

“No. A good memory.”

This time it was her that said:

“I beg your pardon. What?”

I smiled. Then said:

“Is English not your first language?”

She laughed. So did I. Then I told her about my late wife. How we would dance in the kitchen and our kids would watch. When our kids were dating, sometimes we would all move the table to the side of the kitchen, and we would all dance. Sometimes we taught the kids and their dates how to dance with a partner. Other times they would teach us dances like the Cabbage Patch, or Shuffle. It was always a good time. Lots of laughs, good energy…and the lovely slow dances with her in my arms. When I got done with my story…she held both my hands in hers.

“When was the last time you danced?”

“Nine years ago. Just a month after she got sick. After that…well…the chemo and radiation took all her strength away.”

“What was your favorite dance?”

I didn’t even have to think.

“A waltz.”

She put my one arm at her waist. She took my open hand in hers. We were in the standard ready position to dance the Waltz. She looks up at me.

“You lead. I will follow.”

I heard her count down to begin the dance:

“A one…a two…”

And just like that, we stepped out in time to the imaginary music in our heads. It was like we had been dancing together for decades. She flowed along with me as if she could predict my every movement. We swayed, swirled and swept by all of the produce…almost floating as one unit. We had no idea that people had gathered to watch us as we coasted past the cucumbers, the bananas, and way past the tomatoes.

It wasn’t until the song ended in our heads…at just the right time to stop, that we heard the applause. I turned beat red. So did she. But she half turned me, and then herself- to face the crowd. We bowed at the waist. People clapped some more. Slowly, after several dozen quick chats with customers and fans of ballroom dancing in a FoodLion - we were alone again. Still holding hands.

“So you can dance.”

I laughed.

“So can you!”

And that was how it began. Not at the beginning, but at the end of a long decade of loneliness. We dance often, and often in the produce section of the local grocery store. Since that day, we have never been apart.

I kept my promise to my wife.

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