Perfect

I love about her that she’s perfect.

A tight little ball of rightness, no taller than my thigh.  But already: she has this magic in her.  Put her in her shoes and leotard and send her out onto the floor and she wields that magic so bright it makes her shine.  It’s a natural grace, and an inborn love.  They tell me you can’t fake that.

An exception.

A prodigy.

And if someone looks at me sometimes, and asks me “does she take after her father?” I turned away, tight-lipped, and don’t answer them.

Picture credit/discredit: author's own work