Little Dancers
Diane McSweeney
My sister and I –
The image in shades of gray and white
captured in time before Kodachrome was the norm.
The velvet curtain backdrops, pointed-toed ballet slippers
white as snow that almost match her pale skin.
The sparkling silver laced tap shoes
accentuate the puffy legs that support me.
My sister and I –
The tutu circles her thin waist blending white upon white legs.
Silver-lined crinoline floats about my bruised and fleshy knees.
The freckled cheeks complement painted lips of little dancers.
Memory recalls her strawberry red banana curls wrapped
in a chocolate-colored wig.
My auburn pixie is almost concealed by the silver-
and-white-plumed cap upon my head.
My sister and I –
The ballerina calm, graceful, musical, and steady.
The tap dancer bubbly, chatty, visual, and sparkling.
The ballet led to nursing – caring, needling, tearing and repairing.
The tapping led to printing – gathering, stitching, bossing, and binding.
My sister and I –
Multiple sclerosis took her focus, balance, rhythm.
Song tumbled like the autumn leaf to the forest floor.
Broken vows took my bounce, shine, cheer.
Passion melted like the icicle from a single maple limb.
My sister and I –
The silver MS ribbon upon both our breasts
in support of unsteady steps measured.
The image then as now we stand side by side
toes pointing and taps tapping.
My sister and I –