Tiny Dancer

My dancer friend's and I cozied into our seats in the Théâtre de Châtelet, ready to take in LA Dance Project's performance of Reflections, choreographed by Benjamin Millepied of Black Swan fame.

In the row in front of ours, a little girl with the cutest, curliest afro, wearing a white summer dress and her fancy theater shoes, sat down between her mamie and papi. Mamie's hair was a grey and white cotton candy swirl, papi wore a navy blue suit and the lights from the chandelier bounced off his balding head. They pulled up a booster seat so that their granddaughter could see the stage from her spot on the balcony. 

As the lights dimmed, I could make out her sweet profile, looking left and right, as she strained to see the dancers on stage. Somehow, though I had come to see the dancers too, I couldn't stop looking at her tiny, inquisitive face. Were her grandparents taking her to the theater because she also loved to dance? I remembered the musicals, the ballets, the Cirque du Soleil performances, and all of the programs that I had kept in a box as I grew up. My dance classes five days a week, the recitals and costumes and bouquet of pointe shoes that I hung on my door...

Mamie helped the little girl onto her lap so that she could see through the audience in front of her, but it was too much. The dance was too modern for such a little girl to appreciate and enjoy. She was quickly squirming, pointing, pulling her necklace over her eyes to distract herself, while mamie pulled her close and shushed her. 

After intermission, the little girl was gone. She never would have made it though Merce Cunningham's Winterbranch anyways. But still...

I wondered about her.

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