From the Wings

Behind the curtain, on the stairs of the Academy, we wait.

You demand your hug but you haven't passed me yet.  When you do walk by,  I kiss your cheek.  I watch as one of the other moms further down the line hurriedly brushes the lipstick mark from it.

A few minutes earlier in the dressing room you fussed that the package of brand new tights was incorrectly made so you had to wear your practice tights. The multiple on-offs of the costume and flesh-colored leotard had undone your up-do, but I remained calm although hair is my least favorite task.

My hands tremble.

I look at your reflection as I pin your braided hair into its requisite coil. You're beautiful. I see what the audience will see--a face that glistens like daisy petals in the sun.

We laugh at your pre-stage luck; you giggle about the inevitable pre-performance snafu: "Better the bad luck now than on stage," you say.

Who is this woman-child? I wonder, but I work in silence. My pounding heart is the pre-performance metronome. You'll dance beautifully. You always do.

Backstage is hazardous. It's filled with wires and pulley, tripping hazards of rosin boxes, scattered legwarmers, and exercise bands strewn underfoot like stray pieces of a neglected jig-saw puzzle, and there are scores of nervous and pesky stage moms.

I'm not pesky.

I smile to every girl, adjust bows, and fluff tulle. I'm not a dancer, but I know the necessity of tucked elastics for soft-soled shoes and smiling faces. Other than that I offer no performance wisdom.  I'm just there for support.

I've never understood the perfomer's need to bask in the spotlight. It seems so risky to create in front of an audience.

I'm a writer most at home typing while barefoot. Mine is a solitary venture--no audience, no accolades---just introspection. On second thought I have company--words, lots of words.  Dictionaries full of them.

I understand the dancers' need for expression, though.

I watch you calm yourself amongst the backstage bustle. You are present but apart.

In the minute before you rush on stage I think of how years ago you used to ask me what the ballet dancers "were saying" when they moved to the music. It was your little-girl way of asking what emotion the dancers evoked as they performed. You no longer rely on my interpretation, but sometimes, just sometimes, you ask me what the dancers are saying--just to see if we're on the same interpretative wave-length, or to humor me.

As I watch you perform from the wings, I think

Tonight your feet say confidence and your body says grace.

Tonight your performance says I'm growing up.

Tonight I say to you that you'll always be my little girl.