I anxiously sat in the restaurant booth awaiting my date. I watched the server. Her stride and the silhouette of the flip in her hair reminded me of my mother. It had been years since her death and images of her rarely entered my mind. I took a deep breath and thought of her.

When I was ten, we were at a rented beach house and my mother announced that this would be her last cartwheel ever. Ever? My sisters and I didn’t understand. She explained that she was too old and too tired to do more. My sisters continued to twirl in the surf, and I half-heartedly gave it a try.

My mother tightened her pony tail, secured her halter top, and proceeded to turn herself in one complete motion. We applauded her, and she took a little bow. It wasn’t long after that that the hospital visits began, and she faded from the person she once was.

My date arrived with a bold smile. We settled into conversation. She apologized for her tardiness, but she was teaching her niece how to do cartwheels.

I exhaled and smiled.