Pastel Ballerina
By sweetbrother
She moves like a willow in a breeze stretching, turning, until her slender form is transformed like a flower as it opens Meanwhile, my clumsy fingers struggle to capture an image I'm not there to witness, or photograph. My child, in a distant room with a dozen others practices ancient rituals of movement This is art therapy in a sterile psychiatric sanctuary prescibed by Dr. Sara to ease the pain of not being there to watch and support my nimble, fragile child Chalk-stained fingers rummage through a box to find the shade of cinnamon that suits her skin; the fingers crease the paper in a vain attempt to record the flip of a ponytail through dusty air. Tans and yellows are deployed to evoke shafts of sunlight through unwashed windows Still, her graceful steps are locked in my imagination; the skill to bring them to a page eludes me. Written November 8th, 2001 © on Nov 08 2001 08:44 AM PST 0 • 1
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"She moves like a willow in a breeze..."