Dear Tlingit Mother, Today, I watched you in the dance. Native tongues unleash chords while children's feet beat rhythms on the gym floor.  As the song crescendoes, you notice your granddaughter and lift your feet from the chair's foot rests to match her rhythm. I watched you lean toward the dance. Your gnarled hands keep time and your carefully swept up gray hair falls from its place in youthful tendrils.  What days of passion saw your hair frame your face as you leaned toward your lover or your work? Daughter wheels you onto the dance floor when your people are called out.  The further you glide into the midst of dancers, the taller you become. Your toothless smile graces the young boy as you nod and pivot.  It strengthens his dance and his head bows toward yours. As the dance slows, you look back and give silent approval with an upraised chin.  The children know they have danced with you. Daughter pats your hair into place and lifts your feet back onto the foot rests.  You fold your bent hands in your lap, and leave.

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