It’s a dance party on one on the many corona nights. Well past ten, past eleven, usually all three kids in bed, but now there is not much of a bed time. I’m trying to get 10000 steps a day within 100 meters. Doesn’t work. Then I try an exercise class, camera off, just knowing that other people are sweating, moving, even if they can’t see me and I’m not that interested in seeing them. Not great. So I decide I’ll get to know some new music and just dance. In the small space of my room. My daughter comes in, she is sixteen. Graceful, tall, svelte, even. I’m not. I’m fifty, nothing fits the way it used to. Youth is gone. But she says, “let’s do it, Mom, 10000 steps.” I say, “800 would be okay too,” and she says, “No way, 10000!, we can do it,” and we dance and we sweat and we laugh together, and I find it amazing that I gave birth to the body now next to me, independent and strong and eager. Two dancing bodies; healthy, thank god; about the same height; two shadows on the dark window, holding hands, promising something new.