My daughter is in her room playing music. I hear the uneven thumping of her feet, an occasional thud when she falls down.
I don’t open the door and ruin her groove and I would never take pictures or video. This is far too sacred.
She’s doing what I did, and I expect most girls (and boys) did before we were so damn aware of our human frailties. She’s dancing in front of her mirror.
She has her own music. It’s certainly not mine – I do my best to tolerate the stuff. Who am I to criticize? My music was Billy Idol,
Michael Jackson, Culture Club, the Beatles and Rolling Stones. Like her, I didn’t really choose it anyway. It was in the air at the time. We throw stuff at kids that age and see what sticks. It has a beat, some memorable words… it does the trick.
The music is beside the point. It’s about the moves, the jumps, spins, splits, in no way perfect, just fun. Knowing her, they’ll never see the light of day. She just loves the way her hair swings when she dances. She loves the way her voice sounds when she sings.
I hope she has many years to come of reveling in front of the mirror for that imaginary stadium of adoring fans, before some chucklehead says she’s fat or ugly, or asks if she bought her outfit from the farm catalog.
I want her to twirl forever, catching the approving smile of herself in the mirror, who is also her best friend.
I’ll leave them alone together.