The moment has come.
And the dance hall awaits like a grandmother’s silent plea for a baby’s first step.
Ceilings as tall as mountains, white as snow.
Grecian columns, so circular and round, taking in all perspectives, never missing a thing.
The tall, elegant windows build bridges to the outside world.
Bridges to the magical, mysterious forest, so full of that deep, fresh green you want to breathe in forever.
Without any instruction, the girl begins to make tiny inches toward movement.
She shifts the weight to her toes, then her heels, then back again.
She curls the tip of her fingers one at a time, enthralled by each knuckle becoming more defined, more deliberate.
Her eyes float around the room.
It feels good to float, she thinks to herself.
Her arms swing side to side like the wings of a blue jay.
She leans her hips to the left, right, finding her internal rhythm and tone.
And before she knows it, she is gliding.
The music in her head guides her, perfectly aligned to her steps.
Why she dances, she’s not entirely sure.
Perhaps her body is telling her heart a story.