Caitlin K.

My hands like ripe peaches, so small and pink, so tender.

Two girls nearby chattering.

Farther off, another child’s squeal of delight.

The whisper of those tender hands rubbing together.

Chalk whitening those hands of mine.

The curve of my friend’s feet upon a bar, her back bent into a crouch.

The stern voice of a teacher.

White chalk snowing onto the black of my leotard.

Those little wonders of inheritance, of evolution, of divine Creation – those hands – gripping the wooden bar, tree roots wrapped around a rock.

My bare knees round and white, pulling up, up.

Noise receding, unnoticed.

A sudden lurch behind my eyes.

The world tilting, flipping, blurring.

A jerk.

A halt.

White arms, strong and straight.

Muscles stretched and tightened.

The depths of my back emanating force (it flows up the spine, through the shoulders, down the white arms, pulsing into those hands).

The gentle pressure of the bar against my thighs.

My narrow feet curved, pointed, floating.

The crown of my head dropping, diving, and the world turning, spinning.

The lurch in my stomach.

The floor firm beneath my bare feet.

The rough gray carpet kissing my round toes, my soft, soft toes.

And those hands still curled around that wooden bar.

Sound, rushing back – a confused babble of voices.

And those hands.

Those hands.

Those hands of mine, knowing deep under their pure, chalk-white flesh, knowing in their bird-thin bones that they were the source of the whole lovely sensation.