But the injured aid yanked at the woman’s ankles, fighting for her slippers. “They only do what you let them do.”

I sprang up and approached the scuffle. “Let me try, won’t you?”

Wash her feet. It had swept over me every time I saw the woman, and nothing short of the literal act had seemed to suffice. My chance had come, the conviction even stronger than the first time. Serve her. Wash her feet. So I would.

They all three turned to me, then backed away from the old woman, who clung to the battered chair. “Help yourself.”

They moved away and I knelt before her, hand on her knee. “Hello, Anna.” I spoke softly, and her wild-eyed gaze connected with mine. White frizz hung over her face. “I won’t hurt you, I promise. And I won’t steal your shoes. I only want to clean your feet. Would that be all right?”

She stared at me wordlessly, so I swept one foot out and peeled off the heel of her slipper that seemed to have become part of her foot. Her skin was raw around the edges, and the more of her foot I exposed, the more I wanted to stop. To back away. This couldn’t be what God intended. I stared at her long, bowed legs, her swollen feet. I held the slipper and tugged forward. “May I?”

She looked about until her gaze centered on me, then the foot I held, but she did not pull back.

I pulled off the rest of the shoe to reveal the most wretched, misshapen, blistered foot I’d ever seen. Wounds old and new, calluses that turned a few toes crooked, and blister scars covered her flesh. I had to hold my breath to keep from gasping. I held that bare foot and looked up into the old woman’s face. She looked directly at me for once as I held her foot, and she gently tried to tuck it away.

A dancer. She was a dancer! “You were a ballerina.” I’d known several, shared a stage with a few, and I had learned that no other foot became as damaged as that of a ballet dancer’s. “Anna, won’t you tell me about it?”

In answer, she tipped her face toward the heavens with a vacant smile and started humming, as if still hearing the ballet’s orchestra. In my hand, that misshapen, hard-worn foot curved, muscles activating until her toes were pointed. I dipped a rag into the basin and began washing.

She sighed. “Remember. Always remember. Who you are.” She spoke it like a song, eyes closed. She hardly flinched as I ran the cold cloth over callouses, injuries, and raw skin. When I drew my rag away, her eyes fluttered open. “Where’s my music box?” She spoke awkwardly, as if she’d filled her mouth with smooth stones. “My music. I cannot forget.”