Dance all night

Here's a delightful column Sister Maureen sent me from the Philadelphia Inquirer by Francesca Serritella, an honors graduate at Harvard.

My grandmother, whom you know as Mother Mary, just turned 86 years old, and so I gave her a call. I sang "Happy Birthday," we discussed the usual topics, and then she asked me one of the questions she always asks: "Kitten, are you having fun?" And for once, I had a real story for her.
I answered, "I had the best night of my life."
Last weekend, my cousin invited me to a charity ball. I expected it to be a formal, bordering on stuffy, occasion, one that intimidated me. But I had a red dress in my closet, and sometimes that is reason enough.
The night turned out to live up to every possible promise a red dress can make. The event was held in a beautiful old New York building. There, I met a British man who was so handsome, so debonair, I could hardly speak when he started talking to me, much less move when he asked me to dance.
He led me to the dance floor, where we remained for the next two hours. He spun me around like a pro, and on the last beat of every song, he'd toss me into the most daring, thrilling dips, the sort of trust-me-or-die, hair-grazes-the-floor dips that make other people stop and look.
A group of us, including Prince Charming, ended the night at an authentic piano bar - a tiny place where a gifted pianist played song after song, and the waitress and bartender took turns singing long after last call.
Finally, it was time for me to bid my reluctant farewells. I stepped outside and saw that my golden coach was once again a yellow taxi, and the evening rain had released smells of the city not found in fairy tales.
Driving home, replaying the evening in my mind, I could barely believe such a night could be real. As I stepped out of the cab, I looked down at my feet and saw that both of my shoes had an ugly bit of glue exposed over the peep-toe. And then I realized I had my proof that the night had really happened:
I had danced the bows off my shoes.
"Oh, Kitten, that's marvelous!" my grandmother cried. Her tone turned serious: "But did you sing at the piano bar?"
I laughed. "No."
"No?! Why not?"
"Oh, I don't know, I'd be too embarrassed. I don't think I even know all the words to any song."
"You know all those Sinatra songs! I always used to sing at piano bars when I was young. Anywhere I went, if there was a piano, I would sing. You see, I was a bit of a show-off then."
"Oh yeah?"
"Oh yeah! I would go to a party in a great dress, and I'd dance all night in the center of the room, and I'd always sing at a piano. That was 60, 70 years ago, but I loved it. You should never be embarrassed. You should have sung your heart out."
The picture she was painting of herself was far different from the grandmother I knew, but it was one I could see clearly. I realized that inside the woman who survived an impoverished childhood, who selflessly raised two kids and worked when few women did, who despite arthritic fingers and worsening eyesight can still assemble 100 perfect ravioli on any given afternoon, inside my grandmother, was a woman who loved the limelight, who could dance all night, and who sang at a piano, always.
We said goodbye, and when I hung up the phone I had a different perspective on my night at the ball. At the time, I had tried my hardest to live in the moment, to savor every minute of that night. The next day, I had rushed to tell my friends before I forgot a detail; I'd even been tempted to write it down in a journal, get it on the record, anything to preserve a magical evening that was over too soon. But now I know it was a night I will carry with me. A night I will tell my grandchildren about - the night I danced the bows off my shoes.
I know I will remember that night, because my 86-year-old grandmother still does. But the next time I'm in a piano bar, I'll sing.