Sara Who Dances

I watched as Sara danced across the glossy, wood floor of the ailing gym. She is a dancer. She enjoys standing on her tiptoes and twirling in her short ballerina dress. She’s really good at it too. She tried to teach me once, but when I tried to do one of her fancy spins, I fell on my backside, and got real red when I noticed people watching me try to be like Sara. I sit and watch Sara for hours and hours as she does what she’s best at. Watch this! I look up as Sara yells right as she goes into a perfect arabesque. I don’t know how to say that word out loud, but Sara says it all the time. She says it’s a ballet position where you stand on one leg with the other in the air behind you and go onto your tiptoe and balance. And Sara said if you’re really good, then you can even spin like that. I go in my kitchen, which has just enough space to be be a ballerina in, and twirl like a streamer in the wind. My mother gets angry and tells me to stop before I knock over her glass of bubbly pepsi that is dangerously close to falling off the counter to its death. Sara oh Sara. Why can’t I dance like you? I want to dance like a flower does with the soft breeze as its partner. I ponder and ponder. Why can’t I dance? I avoid Sara for a few days. I can’t bare to see her dance. After a few days, I miss Sara. I miss the way her feet move across the floor and the way she flutters gracefully to the ground like a green baby leaf leaving its mother for the time. When it’s time to go home, I find her gently moving across the floor to her dancing music which seems to be dancing along with her. I’m sorry Sara. I can’t dance, but I’m happy you can. You dance like beauty. I love your dancing. We embrace and I sit against the wall to watch Sara and her music dance ballet together.