Penelope's First Recital

Once upon a time, when I was three years old (maybe), my parents took me bowling. I must have looked sweet that day, crouching over the ball with my blonde pigtails swinging, because my dad told me about it once years later.

"I wish I had a picture," he said. Then he paused, "but I guess it doesn't really matter. I'll never forget the way you looked that day."

I know what he meant. I'll never forget today, either.

The throng of people; the crowd; the crush, and Penelope following after her teacher. Penelope in her long-sleeved black leotard, with a sparkly star on her tummy and puffy, pink pom-poms in her hair. Katherine in the front row and Penelope being oh, so brave on-stage.

And afterward, moment...

...by moment...

...I want to remember.

But here's the un-photographed moment. The tender one I'll always treasure:

"Did you have fun at your recital today?" I asked, bending low over her bed. She was all lit up in the moonlight, or the streetlights, and when I leaned forward my body cast a shadow on the wall behind her. I arranged the quilts around her anyway. "I was so proud of the way you danced today!" I smoothed her hair and kissed her forehead.

"I did have fun, Mommy," she sighed. "I had so much fun today." She yawned. Then she whispered, "will you sing to me before I go to sleep tonight, Mommy?"

"Okay," I said, and started singing.

Hush little baby, don't say a word, Mommy's gonna show you a hummingbird.

Her eyes were wide and dark and heavy; her shoulders were lost inside her big sister's yellow t-shirt, good for the inside of a child; and, with her hair still in bunny ears, two, small buns all disarranged, she raised her arms into fifth position, closed her eyes, and started to sway.

***

Sweet dreams, sweet dancer. You did a beautiful job today.