I sit here as the rain spatters the windshield, tucked in a fleece, dreaming of a warm fire at home.
I'd know those legs anywhere, but I've never quite studied them as I'm doing now. Slender, tiny, able to reach great heights; feet that seem unnaturally flexible in form. Tonight, in the silence, I'm taken aback by how small they look next to everyone else's--black jazz pants in a sea of pink tights. Much like her wardrobe, those legs set her apart.
How long has it been since I've simply watched her feet? Forced to see from a new perspective, I gain a sense of the reasons they peel, bruise, ache; with heels on releve, arches formed, toes perfectly pointed she puts them through their paces.
I briefly catch a glimpse of a face in concentration as she stretches deeply. After almost eight straight hours she must be ready to finish. Never does she slow or falter,in each movement completed she offers nothing but precision. Her work ethic astounds me.
A text comes in from the grace girl's friend. A picture message of my other babe in motion. Legs split and in a spin. Captured in a whirl. Simultaneous movement forty miles apart.
Soon she'll come to the car, we'll recount her day as I drive west toward her sister. Normal conversation, wrapped and carried from front seat to back. She's still too light to join me in the front seat. A reminder, for now, that she's not yet all grown up.
I'll hear of how the toenail is bruised and that the pointe shoes were excruciating today. She'll tell me that the Russians that I just finished showing three weeks ago are going soft in the shank and will need to be replaced sooner than I'd hoped.
We pull into our other studio to grab my Little Bit, whose coming from her company class and is full of chatter and smiles after three hours engaged in her passion.
I wet-wipe off the grime and dirt before they put on their street shoes, gently wiping in-between toes and around calloused heels; cleaning, checking and watching for wear and tear. Toes without polish, no longer unblemished.
I'm hit by it...
How beautiful are the feet...
In using our gifts, we get dirty.
Limping until we find our stride.
Beautiful feet, carrying us toward the goal.