It’s a cliche, how history repeats itself.
It’s true, at least in our family, as life motors on I see glimpses of my past squished with my present or projected in my future.
Time truly is liquid.
My daughter started ballet a few months ago. She loves the pink outfit, the tights, the shoes. She prances around the house doing pirouettes now. “Watch this move!” she’ll yell gleefully as she swiftly glides by the family in our living room.
I vaguely remember doing that myself.
I marvel, wondering if it’s all little girls or only those in my family. If we all dream of tutus and ballet shoes and eating disorders and men in tights.
Or if it’s simply the art of attention. Of feeling pretty. Of being graceful.
And if we ever grow out of that.
I watch as her face fills with so much glee. So much pride.
Her once two left feet carrying her in circles, her arms raised. Her smile lit.
Feet landing softly.
Out of order.
On their own.
Hearing a different music.
Than the others.
I smile at my husband, as he beams at his daughter. We laugh and look at our son. How one day he, too, will be performing for us. Music, sports, art.
I can not remember when they grew. I do not remember when I did. In my heart I am still the little girl dancing.
Her feet to a music all alone.
A smile wide and bright.
I don’t remember the day I gave my ballet recital exactly, but I do remember the smile on my face.
Simply because I saw it again, on my daughter, just the other day.