Time was her friend. She danced. She spun on bare feet on the thin beam in the gym. Kicked legs high on a stage filled with light. Faced the fear of the vault head on. Wore skates like they were meant to be there.
She sang. Still does. The voice has grown gruff. Her pitch has dropped, like her spine. She has grown used to it. Did the plays in the park. Learned the term “Rain Pace” with the rest of the cast.
Stood in line at the club. Closed down the town with her girls. She once tried to box. Found she had a mean right jab. It was a good gift to have late at night when she longed to feel brave.
Now knees, bones and skin tell brief tales. Each step is slow. The smile on her face is true, but bruised. Each line is a lost love. She hears what she needs and the rest is tossed. She can laugh at her own jokes.
Now the torch is passed. The limbs move with just the right poise, but scant strength. The arms do not reach so high as to touch God’s face, but they will, in time.