The dancer stretched her neck, shook out her hands, and breathed deeply. She went up on her toes and down again. One finger tapped the beat, counting down her cue. She tucked her hips, drew in her stomach and led with her hands, leaping on to the stage.
The spotlights, usually so harsh and unforgiving, seemed to soften and wrap her gently, following her every movement. The chiffon ribbons on her costume shimmered cobalt, teal and aquamarine.
The dancer sped and slowed, undulating with the music. Her movements were precise, but weightless, as though invisible marionette strings pulled and released her. She whirled effortlessly, her arms caging her body, switching feet until the music ended, and she flung her hands exultantly to the sky. Her smile lingered until the lights dimmed, and the audience roared.
She flew off stage into my waiting arms. “Didja see me, mama, didja? Didja?”
Yes, my angel, I did.