I see her. She walks into the studio with her head held high and chin pointed fiercely. Her eyes shine with determination and she steps into the mirrored room, with the lights bright and floor scuffed with marks from the many before her. Her reflection stares at her, the only person she's trying to do beat.
Point harder, turn faster, spot quicker, leap longer, lift your legs higher, plié deeper, move faster. I've watched her dance, counting inaudibly and focusing intently on the movement, the steps, the ballet. She pushes herself and there is nothing half-hearted in her. It's her turn across the floor, and she arabesques and soutenus as if she was born to do it.
She watches herself, rounds her arms more, lifts her leg a little higher, and points even more fiercely. I see her, proud, as she laces up her pointe shoes, stepping into the studio, the smallest one there, yet the most determined. She grips the barre and relaxes her hand and breathes deep and dances, dances, dances.
Wisps of hair escape from her bun that are repinned -- ribbons become loose and she reties them. She steps away from the barre into the center and looks squarely into the mirror, waiting for her turn. The combination is quickly told and the music starts and she goes, following the rhythm, following the movement, dancing like the ballerina she is.
This little dancer is not so little anymore.
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