i think i remember what it is like to feel like a child, or like gene kelly, and i walk sidestep down the street, strut up on walls, dancing. the italians love it, as i pass them. i greet each line in their worn down faces, smooth out the kinks in their backs, make sure that we are walking straight together. i take their hands over my hands, like my grandmother used to, and lead them where they need to go. or let them lead me. where does all the sound go, when you are older? do you forget about crescendo? but then they spin me out, and i keep spinning, the little mothers tucking their hearts in. we all have our hands in our pockets sometimes.