I wear a blue tutu, white tights and ballet slippers sprayed with silver paint.
Mom and Dad sit in the darkened school auditorium.
I run onto the stage with the other little girls and take my position.
I stand in the blinding spotlight unable to see beyond the edge of the stage.
And wait for the music to begin.
I’ve practiced and rehearsed more times than I can remember.
The music starts and my body moves as it has been trained to do.
I move to the music in pirouettes, leaps and plies.
The time on stage goes by quickly and soon we are backstage again.
The dance is over.

As a teenager, I yearn to dance to the music that plays on the radio.
Disco ball lights flash and flicker.
And I twirl and spin to the music.
The dance floor lights up beneath my feet.
My satin skirt swirls around me as I spin.
I dance until the music stops.
We all plead for one more song.
But the night comes to an end.

Now I am older.
The dance still calls to me.
The ballroom is my stage now.
I wear a beautiful white ballgown, the bodice beaded and the full skirt billows around me.
I move to the music of the waltz as if I am floating on air.
The music ends.
I curtsy and gracefully walk off the dance floor.

So many years have gone by.
Those earlier memories still awake and alive inside me.
Will I still dance in my head when my body is old and frail?