Early Ballerina

By Dave Donovan

Ten years ago I hummed Tchaikovsky’s “A Pine Forest in Winter,” and you slept, tucked deep into my shirt, skin on skin, heart beat to heart beat, what the doctors called “kangarooing.” It was our six-week routine in the hospital to help your tiny body grow.

Now the curtain separates, and here you are, one of the angels, one of the big girls, fluttering your arms in the Nutcracker, so full of blatant joy, floating white-winged across the stage, no wires, tape, or tubes to hold you down, light as snow, light as a two-pound baby, flying even higher than expected.