Found on a long-ago Blogger account. This was originally published on November 3, 2014, at 11:13 PM.
Today, I watched my daughter dance. It wasn’t a performance, just a class. I watched the light playing on her skin, watched her bright dark eyes, watched the expressions come and go – the queenly prima, the tired child, the imp, the infant, the wise old woman. She is everything human, dancing.
And above me, in the air, I saw a tiny pink feather, a fragment more graceful than dust but not much larger, flitting and skipping on the warm currents, drifting above me, drifting away, a little memory of tulle and velvet and sweat.