Hi everyone,
I haven't been writing much
lately. But I wrote this one thing earlier in the year and maybe you'll enjoy
reading it.
♥Nancy♬
Rotation
The first
time, I am nearly three years old. My father’s rough palms swamp my tiny,
chubby hands. He holds me tight because he loves me; to my father, I am the
most precious and beautiful girl in the whole world. He stands on tall legs, as
solid as a tree, and lifts me with strong arms. He begins to turn. My legs fly
out. The ground beneath me blurs green before my eyes. The sky above me blurs
blue and white, the clouds spinning into one circular streak. The trees, the
shrubs, the flowers and our house whirl around until it feels like I am
enclosed in a sphere of blurring colours. I squeal in excitement and my father
laughs back at me. He is the only thing in focus as we spin around and around
together.
The
second time, I am eight years and sixteen days old. My hair is high on my head.
My leotard is pink. My stockings are pink. My shoes are pink and tied up my
pink ankles with fraying pink ribbons. My tutu is a pink meringue of pink tulle;
it is an eyesore. I hold my body tight, my feet in fourth position and my arms
out straight. I focus my eyes on the speaker that is mounted right in the
centre of the full wall of mirrors. Plié: my knees bend deep. And like a cat pouncing
I spring up into retiré, fix my arms in first and begin to pirouette. I lock my
eyes onto the black speaker above the mirrors. My neck cranes to keep my gaze
fixed on that spot while my body turns. At the last possible moment, whip, my head flicks around so that my
neck doesn’t snap in two. My eyes remain focussed on that one spot as I spin
around and around.
The third
time, I am thirteen. It is a bright sunny day and my best friend and I have
walked to the park without parental supervision, with a promise to mum to be
back before the sun goes down. Our shoes sit in a jumble on the grass. We sit
on the swings and talk about which boy in our class is the cutest. I hold on
tightly to the chains on the swing and begin to walk my feet around in a
circle. My toes grip into the white sand with every step I take. Metal grinds
on metal as the chains of the swing twist together. Slowly, I walk around and
wind the chains up. My best friend tells me that she’s going to ask the boy she
likes to dance at the school disco. I can’t imagine ever dancing with a boy at
a disco; boys are nothing more than academic competition. The question is
asked: who do I have a crush on? Instead of answering, I push off the warm sand
with one foot and curl my body inwards. The chains of the swing begin to
untwist. The spin starts slowly at first and builds in momentum. I close my
eyes and feel the air rushing around me. It’s like I’m caught in a twister. The
metal chains of the swing mark my hands as I spin around and around.
The
fourth time, I am twenty. I am drunk in a crowd of drunken people. One hand
holds a bottle and the other hand holds a hand that, I realise as I look with
slow eyes, belongs to a girl who maybe wasn’t my best friend before tonight but
definitely is my best friend now. We burst out the doors of the hall into the
frosty night air, where other drunken people huddle like penguins around
wrought iron braziers. Smoke tickles my nostrils. We cackle like kookaburras,
stumble together towards the light of a fire, and suddenly we are kissing. She
tastes like apple cider and her lips are softer than the lips of boys I’ve
kissed. We break apart and she grabs my hand and tugs until I follow, tripping,
regaining balance, and we run together past the light of the fires and on to
the dewy grass. She calls out, “twirl with me” and suddenly my slow eyes don’t
see her but instead see a blur of fabric and hair. So I join her, arms
stretched wide, holding tightly to the chilly glass bottle in my hand. The
world is fuzzy and rotating. My eyes are unfocussed. Our skirts fly out as we
spin around and around, laughing uncontrollably.
This
time, I am twenty-five. I have never looked more beautiful in my whole life. The
people in this room are the people who love me the most in the whole world.
Music starts playing, fast and light and loud. It fills the whole room and my
heartbeat falls into a matching rhythm. My husband comes to me, takes me in his
arms, and holds me tight because he loves me. He takes the lead and pushes me
into the first step of the dance. My wedding dress swishes out as we begin to
rotate. The wooden floor beneath us blurs before my eyes. The ceiling above us glows,
the lights blurring into one circular streak against the darkness above. The
walls, the lights and the people who love us whirl around until it feels like
we are enclosed in a sphere of blurring colours. I tip my head back in a
breathless laugh and my husband laughs with me. He is the only thing in focus
as we spin around and around together.
