Introduced as a 13 year old, she waved, beaming,
as I thought she can’t be a day over 11. A slow
and somber sonata signaled her slow, soft glide
across the frozen floor.
Without a hint, Bach soon lashed out with fury,
his up tempo allegro sending her speeding, now
spinning, jumping, twisting, her arms and legs
seemingly connected as they moved in harmonious
agreement. The music slowed once more, now dark
and melancholy, and she skated easily, relaxed,
catching her breath in preparation for Bach’s
torrid, unrestrained finale.
Moments later, she hastened again, more so
than before, her mind and body in total command
of an array of balletic movements, ending with an
abrupt stop, a plume of icy spray behind her.
Thunderous applause and tossed bouquets filled the air,
mixed with shouts of “Bravo!”. Witness to such perfection,
delivered by such a small child, I wiped away a tear.
“Bravo!” I yelled, “Bravo!”
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