I’m really not sure that it was conscious, this synchronized movement on the part of mother and daughter. The outdoor summer concert had just begun when I spied them, perched on a short wall just adjacent to the stage. The mother, bent with age and hair white as cotton, sat beside her middle aged daughter.
Slowly and surely their bodies began to sway to the tempo, rhythm and accents. Like the Hasidim rocking before the Western Wall in Jerusalem they leaned to and fro in tiny, imperceptible movements, like fledglings in the nest, waiting for a worm, a tidbit from the parent birds.
Was it the power of suggestion that, as I discretely watched them, some musical voyeur, I started swaying as well? And what if that is the point, this side to side dance through time, a waltz of the generations, floating on no more than an eighth note here and a quarter note there?