Kimmydonn Week 50: What Little Girls Are Made Of

Kimmydon
Wednesday


Picture 1

Picture 2


Kimmydon's Choice: Picture 2


Title: What Little Girls Are Made Of
The metal chairs were uncomfortable and creaks echoed as the music faded out. It was quickly replaced by a thunder of applause. My wife and I joined, only slightly less enthusiastic as our daughter was not among the girls on stage. They all bowed together before heel-toeing their way off the stage in unison. They moved more gracefully than I’d ever seen Sarah, age four, manage, but then again, they were an older class.

“She’s next,” Beth said quietly, just loudly enough to be heard.

Immediately my chest tightened slightly. She was with the tiny heads peeking around the curtain as the older girls passed. Her first recital.

Beth took my hand and laughed a little as she squeezed it. “She’s going to be fine,” she whispered to me, kissing my cheek.

Sure enough, my little girl, hair fought into a tiny knot on the back of head amid hundreds of pins, smiled as brightly as any of the other nine girls on stage with her. The instructor took the microphone up briefly to introduce the youngest class and their rendition of Butterfly. They all wore pink leotards and tutus with blue wings attached to sleeves they wore. Beth had had the job of constructing half of those. One of the other girls waved to her parents and blew a kiss. Another girl had started staring at the spotlight and missed the beginning of the music. Sarah did neither. She’d found us, and her smile had brightened, but she stood on her mark and moved when the music started.

I’d been to the odd practice, but Beth attended most of them, so I was unprepared for the fluttering of wings, the interplay between the girls as they leaped between one another, bent and straightened, ran through another series of leaps, all their wings ruffled by the speed of their movements.

Sarah spun out, a frown painting her face as she stood on the edge for the final pliet, but it disappeared when I jumped up, whistling.

“Good job!” I called as more applause joined mine. Beth shook her head as she rose more slowly.

“Really, Peter. She’s fine. She’ll probably be more upset at you than herself,” she chided me.

I didn’t care. My little girl had gotten up on that stage, she’d stared down a theatre full of adults, and she’d shown them what she could do. I was bursting with pride for her. I wanted to run up there and hug her and show everyone she was mine.

I didn’t. Beth was right about it being too much. Still, I was looking forward to giving Sarah the flowers that were currently hiding under my chair, just like she was the prima ballerina. To me, she was.