You stand there laughing, pulling out the sides of your choir gown in a mock curtsy. The sophistication of the gown’s burgundy taffeta clashes with neon bands on your braces. As I try to take a picture, you stick out your tongue. You flutter like a hummingbird around the kitchen, too much nervous energy for a proper portrait pose. Middle school is in the business of quickly serving up milestone after milestone: first dance, first bra, first makeup, first boy, first phone, first heartbreak. First middle school choir concert’s the milestone tonight. As you twirl in your dress and heels, I see a young woman. I wish she wouldn’t spin so fast. Your Jack Russell terrier hears the commotion and joins the fray. She’s barking, bouncing, breaking the spell of my melancholy reminiscing, pulling me into the dance. For a moment this night, we spin recklessly together on the edge, the boundary between woman and little girl. I hug you close, smelling hairspray and bubblegum lipgloss all at once. With a start, I realize the clock is shouting, “Time to go.” You brush down the sides of your choir gown, smoothing away the spinning little girl as you do. Expectant and poised, you head to the car, ready for your concert.
This is the result of a writing exercise I posted about yesterday. If you want to play along, directions are here: 15 Sentences.