My daughter is twelve when they
ask her to dance
                        in the opening scene, the one with the Christmas treeÂ
                        filling the stage with dreams of sugar plum Â
                        faeries and toy soldier armies. It’s the sceneÂ
                        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,Â
                        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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