My daughter is twelve when they
ask her to dance
in the opening scene, the one with the Christmas tree
filling the stage with dreams of sugar plum
faeries and toy soldier armies. It’s the scene
with the children, ribbons streaming through raven
and golden hair, lips curving into perfect bows,
brows shining like the sheen on satin wrappings,
and around the tree gifts piled like snowdrifts,
scattered like rose petals, the
soft white lights
of the mother and father
flickering in the evening
air. The ballet is two months away
when my
daughter says, Please, Dad. We need someone
to be the father. Just for a few weeks. Just
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