It was such a happy simchah, it was worth the pain.  Why did she pick me, though? I wondered

I never considered myself much of a dancer — and probably never will. My mother was graceful and could lead others in complicated steps. My father had two left feet. I take after my father.

Having attended enough simchahs over the years, I can haltingly follow the classic dance steps. I find it amusing when other non-dancers look at my feet to learn the moves. Still, when the beat of music quickens, I want to jump and kick up my feet.

In addition to my lack of coordination, over the last ten years or so, my knees have begun to protest strongly. At my kids’ weddings, I allow myself to release that 15-year-old girl who resides deep inside of me. I romp and hop to my heart’s content without embarrassment.  Having once observed a gracious acquaintance make it her business to dance with each guest in her circle, I learned to reach out to each dear friend who joined me in my simchah.  I pay for it with three weeks of burning knees.

And it’s worth it.

Recently I attended one of those “special” weddings. The daughter of my dear friend was getting married. We raised our kids together as the neighborhood grew up and got old. But my friendship with the kallah’s mother is bonded by blood — the blood of our beloved husbands who were both murdered in the Har Nof terror attack.