the ballerina

Petite, delicate, graceful, she dons her slippers over her pink tights. She stands, smooths out her black skirt over her black leotard, tucks back a strand of hair fallen from her perfectly formed chignon. With eagerness, she places her hands on the barre and begins.

The fluidity and passion in her movements hide the clumsy, undeveloped postures of her youthfulness. Her smile outshines the light in the room. Bending to and fro, rising and falling, reaching further and further, she repeats the motions numerous times. The music carries her movements, holds her up, as though encouraging her.

She steps away, inhales the room, then her toes barely touch the ground as she strides rapidly to the center of the room. She bounds into a long, sinewy, effortful leap. She seems to glide in the air for hours, landing only feet away. On pointed toe, tiny steps she takes around the room, twirls, then repeats the grand action once again.

She looks up to the looking glass wall. She smiles grandly, filled with pride. Then ends with a small, polite curtsey. And with that, one could could imagine the curtain fall and a roar of applause from beyond the four walls.