Twirls and pirouettes: they're not her baby fingers, they're her legs. It's not a hollyhock, but a full brilliantly colored skirt. She is the ballerina and the orchestra, as she hums a half-known bit of music. Even though all she's ever heard in her life is Country and Western it's Tschaikovsky in her mind's ear. It's not dirt in an overgrown garden smelling of summer, ringing with bee song, it's a broad stage and all the world is watching the little girl in the yellow sun dress grownup and graceful, far away in her mind, yearning to break free and dance.
For my beloved sister Lisa, February 22, 2001
February 23, 2001
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