Brock Stephen Henning

My life is fleeting before me, but I pause this morning to capture the beauty and grace before my very eyes, frame by frame, but not mechanical like a movie projector. Flowing.

I watch my 13 year-old daughter wrap the black ribbons around her ankles. Her feet positioned just so as she ties each knot, accepting the worn pointe shoes molding to her gentle feet. Delicate.

I’m fighting back tears, because I cannot count the days—no, the weeks—since I noticed her in this way. Her beauty. Her passion. She is a work of art.

The way she inches her pointed toes, in step, across the floor. What balance she maintains for such a young girl, not quite a young woman. No, she is a young woman. I haven’t accepted this yet. Aching.

But her spins beckon me. I follow, returning to the stage where only our memories can dance. She in my arms, her toddler feet dangling as we twirl across the living room floor. Laughter.