Rotation

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.