Dance
Photos by Brad Miller
a mother's memoir
debutante ball. She wasn't wearing a designer gown, nor were we
at the mall shopping for one. Her hair was not styled, her face was
clean of cosmetics. No one was throwing rice; there were no photographers to mark the occasion.
She was suddenly stunning.
Across the creek, Aspen leaves shuddered, their glory of green backdrop to the water ballet before me. The girl whose shoulders
I habitually took into my hands and pulled back into proper posture
now stood tall. Her arm rose gracefully to lift the rod and bring it
forward, just enough to send the long line soaring.
She was exquisite, an aquatic goddess wearing neoprene.
I was mesmerized, absorbed in her lovely form. The same
little girl who had fought to master every dance step
during cotillion was here, where one would least expect it, moving as if in a waltz.
I focused on her long, slender fingers as she carefully unraveled a wind knot, and then cradled the long
line of filament until it rested gently on the surface of the flowing
creek. Her skin was porcelain, her hair tied haphazardly into a golden
knot at the nape of her neck. In the time it took for her to turn, I saw
myself at her age—hopeful, romantic, on the cusp of forever. She had
Chris, the boyfriend who, if she married, would be the right man.
For this, my heart beat a fast and fervent prayer.
D I S T I N C T LY M O N TA N A
Gal
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