She sits on a tufted stool,
Facing away from the door,
A child’s book in hand.
Perched on the edge of their bed,
Enrapt as she reads,
The three year old grand-girl twins.
Her words transport them
To far away places
To tales of derring-do.
Of fairy princesses with golden hair,
Of kings and dragons and elves,
And of life in enchanted forests.
But standing there
I see a different scene
As time slips into the past.
The room begins to change,
Tchaikovsky fills my inner space.
Stravinsky, Lully and Ravel.
I see a world where oboes chase the fife.
A space defined by Ballon, En Cloche, En Dehors,
As legs flash beneath a tutu of lavender tulle.
She senses my presence
And turns toward me,
A knit brow, a quizzical look.
In answer to the unspoken question
I quickly reply,
“Nothing dear, I’m just watching you dance.”
An excerpt from “A Mixed Bag” and tribute to my wife, my own “ballerina.”