Philomera: The Dance I Never Saw
Some people enter our lives for a season, yet leave behind memories that accompany us for a lifetime.

There are people we meet whose names gradually disappear from our memories. And there are others whose names remain, not because of how long we knew them, but because of what we experienced together.
Philomera was one of those people.
More than twelve years have passed since I knew her, yet I still remember her laughter, her songs, and the excitement with which she spoke about her youth.
Most of all, I remember her hands reaching for mine, inviting me to dance.
I met Philomera while volunteering at a home for elderly people at St. Paul's Family in Bwenkoma–Ruti, Mbarara, in western Uganda. I was involved in helping with daily living activities and other work that supported the home, including making candles.
I had gone there to serve.
I did not know that among the people I would meet was a woman who would give me memories I would carry for years.

The Woman in the Banana Garden
Philomera was in her nineties.
She was blind, yet one of the remarkable things I remember about her was that she still weeded in the banana garden.
There was something memorable about seeing a woman of her age, living without sight, continuing to participate in the activities around her.
But what made Philomera unforgettable was not simply what she could do.
It was who she was.
She had lived much of her life in Mbarara, yet her memories often returned to her younger years in Buganda.
When she spoke to me, she spoke Luganda. With members of theAnkole community, she spoke Runyankole.
At the time, I experienced these conversations as part of our ordinary interactions. Looking back, I find something beautiful in them.
Her memories belonged to one part of Uganda, while much of her life had unfolded in another. Both were part of her story.
She did not need to tell me a philosophy of cultural belonging.
Her life offered me an example of it.

The Songs I Did Not Know
Philomera loved talking about her youth.
And what a joyful youth she remembered!
She would tell me about going out dancing, enjoying herself, and the wonderful times she had experienced.
As she narrated, her excitement would grow.
She would laugh.
She would sing.
Sometimes she would demonstrate the dance movements she remembered.
And sometimes, with great excitement, she would reach for my hands.
I had to dance along.
The songs were unfamiliar to me. They came from a time and experience that were not my own. But I did not need to know the songs to participate.
She sang, and I followed.
I was the younger person, yet she was the one teaching me the dance.
Those moments have stayed with me.
I never saw Philomera as the young woman who went out dancing in Buganda. I never attended those celebrations or met the friends who accompanied her.
But when she sang and moved, I encountered something of the young woman she remembered being.
For a moment, the distance between her youth and mine seemed smaller.
Her memories became something we could share.

The People I Never Met
Not all Philomera's stories were happy.
Sometimes she spoke about family members and friends she had lost.
She remembered people who had once been part of her life, people whose absence she still felt.
When she spoke about them, I found myself imagining her world.
I imagined the family and friends she had known, the people who had shared her everyday experiences, and those who might have celebrated and danced with her.
I did not know their faces.
I had never met them.
Yet through her stories, I began to understand that the elderly woman before me had lived an entire life of relationships, experiences, happiness, and sorrow long before I entered it.
She also told me that she had never had children of her own.
That was one of the personal details she shared as our conversations moved between her past and my future.
Philomera would sometimes ask me whether I was married.
When I told her I was not, she encouraged me to marry. Perhaps, she hoped, she would live to see my children.
At that stage of my life, I had no clear picture of the family I would one day have.
Instead, I was often imagining the people she had known.
She was curious about the life still ahead of me, while I was learning about the life that lay behind her.
We stood at different points in our journeys, yet our conversations allowed those journeys to meet.

When the Laughter Became Quiet
There were moments when Philomera's joyful stories gave way to sadness.
She would remember those she had lost.
Sometimes she thought about her own departure from life.
Those conversations were different from the dancing and laughter.
I could not restore the people she missed. I could not tell her what the future held.
But I could listen.
And I could reassure her that all was well and that she was surrounded by love.
I was a young volunteer, still learning about life myself. I had come to assist elderly people with practical needs, but I was discovering that companionship involved more than the work of caring for someone.
Sometimes it meant listening to a story for which you had no answer.
Sometimes it meant sharing a song you did not know.
Sometimes it meant holding someone's hands and joining a dance.
And sometimes it meant simply being present when the conversation turned to loss and uncertainty.
Philomera gave me opportunities to experience all of these.

The Goodbye I Never Said
Eventually, my time with Philomera became part of my past.
I was not there during her last days.
I never had the opportunity to sit beside her one final time, to hold her hands again, or to say farewell.
That absence saddens me.
There are things we understand only when we look back. We realize that an ordinary conversation was one of our last, or that a familiar moment would never happen again.
I cannot return to those days in Mbarara.
I cannot ask Philomera to sing one more song.
I cannot ask her to tell me another story about Buganda.
And I cannot recover the farewell I never had the chance to give.
But I can remember.
I remember the woman in the banana garden.
I remember how she spoke Luganda with me and Runyankole with others.
I remember her excitement as she described the dances of her youth.
I remember how she laughed, sang, and took my hands.
I remember the questions she asked about my life and the family I might one day have.
And I remember the quieter conversations about the people she had loved and lost.
I had gone to Bwenkoma–Ruti to serve elderly people.
Through Philomera, I discovered that service could become a relationship in which both people had something meaningful to give.
I offered my time, care, and companionship.
She offered me her memories, her songs, her laughter, and a glimpse into a life I had never witnessed.

The Dance That Remains
Today, when I think about Philomera, I do not remember only a woman in her nineties who was blind.
I remember a woman who had once been young.
A woman who had danced.
A woman who had loved people and missed them.
A woman who carried memories of Buganda while living among the people of Ankole.
A woman who could laugh with extraordinary excitement and, at other moments, speak quietly about the uncertainty of life.
A woman who took an interest in the future of a young man who had come to help care for her.
And I remember that, although I never witnessed the dances of her youth, she invited me to share something of them.
I followed her movements while she sang songs I did not know.
Years later, I can no longer ask her to teach me those songs.
But I can tell her story.
Perhaps this is my opportunity to say the farewell I never said.
Thank you, Philomera, for the laughter.
Thank you for the songs.
Thank you for sharing your memories and allowing me to imagine the world you had known.
And thank you for inviting me to dance.
I never saw the young Philomera dancing in Buganda.
But I danced with the Philomera who remembered her.
And that is a memory I will carry with me.

A George House Reflection
To truly encounter another person is to recognize that their life began long before they entered ours.
Every person carries a history that we cannot fully see.
Behind old age are younger years. Behind silence may be stories. Behind the visible circumstances of a person's life are relationships, joys, disappointments, hopes, and experiences that helped shape who they became.
When we listen, we give ourselves an opportunity to discover some of that hidden world.
Philomera taught me something I continue to value:
The people we care for may also have something precious to give us.
And sometimes, the relationships that shape us most deeply begin with something as simple as listening to a story—or accepting an invitation to dance.