She ties her ballet shoes, she’s walking towards center stage. She’s nervous and yet calm, all too anxious as today’s breakfast has forced the sweat between her fingers to form nerve endings. Her legs ride smooth as powerful and graceful roots preparing to hold the gift of artistic movement about to glide across the glossed pine that lay, frozen beneath her toes. Her hair, done up with the utmost perfection. Silver and green streaks parallel her natural born blond creating foundations for the performance enhancement. Shades of green and red glitter line her eye lids, her skin pale, untouched from today’s sun. Yes she is ready, at least that is what her teacher keeps telling her parents. They believe her naturally as any consumer endows trust into the ‘experts’ who harbor the ability to convince. Today our little dancer moves to a mixture of piano, drowned in emotional ties weighed down with regret. The music tells a tale of heartache, and as such, the dancer reflects its detrimental nature. She moves left and she moves right, her feet moving in tandem with her arms extended just beyond her forehead. Slowly her teacher whispers, ever so slowly please, your parents are watching. She’s got a right to lose you know, she’s is still young and capable of changing her course. The spotlight drops to center again after briefly revealing her audience as the small dancer flows effortlessly across the plane. You know she’s practiced, she’s well mannered and professionally built. She doesn’t realize it now, but she will in time as this slow dance she shares with her parents and many others, brought tears to those lucky enough to sit in the far back.