Je Fonds

The step is fondu.  "Melt gently, slowly, " she directs the class.

I mentally conjugate the French verb as I become more aware of my posture on the wooden bench.  I shift in my seat, place my feet flat on the floor, and stop slouching.  How can you not be aware of posture in front of a room full of ballerinas and ballerinos ( to borrow a phrase from another dance teacher).

Is there any other way to melt? Their slippered feet enact the verb;  I think about her words as I watch the class.  Each time I've kissed a lover, my body gently melts into his--a soft merging while our souls whisper hello through parted lips.  I like soft, tentative first kisses best--a treasured moment marking a shift in a relationship. 

My mother's heart melts as I watch you exercise at the barre and have your flawed steps corrected firmly by a Russain ballet teacher.  You look at me ; I nod.  I was thinking your arms were too limp and your foot not pointed enough, too.  I don't care if it's perfect, but I think you could try harder, yes. 

"Look beyond the mirror to where the audience is; don't look at me," the teacher says to the class.

Look beyond the mirror.  I do that a lot these days--look beyond the mirror's reflection.  I don't see an audience, though.  I see you at different moments--at your first boy-girl dance, at your prom, on stage clutching a diploma, studying at 2 a.m. wearing an oversized college sweatshirt.

I want for you the things I didn't have--and won't have--like love that looks beyond the mirror and sees the glory of the soul within.