La Di Da

 Degas' Blue Dancers.

Bright blue tutus hover above bruise covered knees that lock and release.

Silky satin ribbons sweep across the saw dust covered stage: Yellow, pink, even purple.

A rhythm of count seven-eight is whispered among the cluster of floating dolls.

Leaps of faith that soar effortlessly and land swiftly on that splintery platform.

Maybe it was the hair pulled back tight, the twisted bun above the body leading the feet in a parallel sensation-

Maybe it was the torn and scratched slippers that cover the strangely blistered and strained toes-

Or maybe it was the sway of the hips and that un-chartered extension of the thigh-leg-foot.

Will it ever make sense the magic of the dance recital?

The vanilla scented sweat that stays glistening lightly on the baby smooth foreheads.

One day I’ll capture that special moment,

that split second in time when you are mid-air and legs high above the mid-plane and arms somewhere around heaven and soul singing to you that this is where it is meant to be.

And then the cruelness of gravity brings us back to reality and back to the sores and heartache but our soul lingers for one moment more…

And this is the magical and insanely incredible experience that keeps bringing me back to the pain of the inner thighs and the over working of the knees and the weakness of the shoulders and the rocks in the feet because there is magic in dance and the feeling is so addicting and I will never give it up.

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Ah, but sadly, I did give it up, and I have strayed far from those days... My body now in aches out of the lack of dance in my life and oh how I need to return to those beats and movements...my body needs it so.