Toe pointed toward the floor. Fingers soft, waiting.
She thinks nobody is watching.
She is wrong.
She thinks she is alone to just try, give it a go.
She is not.
I spy from the kitchen doorway, glancing up occasionally trying not to be seen.
The dial is turned louder, the music now bigger filling the room.
Her body understands the rhythm, has heard it before.
She leaps, twists, turns, jumps across her imagined stage.
I sneak a peek just in time to see the delight in her eyes as she hops on one foot then the other, no, not quite graciously, but, well, beautifully.
My eyes wont leave her. Her joy has mixed with the music, and melts it’s way into a mother’s heart, a mother with jobs to do. Dinner to cook.
She sees me. The spell is broken.
She stops. The dancing, the safety, the freedom is finished.
Her stage is packed up and returns to being a family room with a pile of laundry to fold in one corner.
Oh no, what has this mother done. What can she do to fix the magic of the moment?
I push the lounge back out of the way and forget about dinner.
I grab my little teachers forgiving hand.
We may not eat tonight.
But we will dance!