The cruise ship was crowded 
with people off for three days of pleasure.
Ahead of me in the passageway 
walked a tiny woman in brown slacks,
her shoulders hunched, her white hair cut in a bob.
From the ship's intercom came a familiar tune -
"Begin The Beguine."

And suddenly a wonderful thing happened. 
The woman, unaware anyone was behind her,
did a quick and graceful dance step -
back, shuffle, slide.
As she reached the door to the dining salon,
she reassembled her dignity and
stepped soberly through.

Younger people often think folks my age 
are beyond romance, dancing or dreams.
They see us as age has shaped us;
camouflaged by wrinkles, thick waists and gray hair.
They don't see the people who live inside -
we are the wise old codgers,
the dignified matrons.

No one would ever know 
that I am still the skinny girl 
who grew up in a leafy suburb of Boston. 
Inside, I still think of myself as the youngest child 
in a vivacious family headed by a mother of great beauty 
and a father of unfailing good cheer.
And I am still the romantic teenager
who longed for love,
the young adult who aspired to social respectability - 
but whom shall I tell?

We are all like the woman
in the ship's passageway,
in whom the music still echoes.
We are the sum of all the lives we once lived. 
We show the grown-up part,
but inside we are still the laughing children,
the shy teens, the dream-filled youths.
There still exists, most real,
the matrix of all we were or ever yearned to be.

In our hearts we still hear
"Begin the Beguine" -
and when we are alone, we dance.

By Beth Ashley