no. 007 rhythm

Velvet curtains, weathered, heavy

hanging from worn metal tracks 

swayed, lurched, caught on the grommets

till finally they were yanked open and there 

we stood—

the gym spruced up in boughs and string lights

the faint scent of pine rising under the heat

our shiny shoes shifted 

from one to the other

eyes nearly blinded by beams of light 

we squinted, searched 

for the tops of familiar heads 

Mrs Grace Davis tiptoed behind us 

a touch on the shoulder of us wiggly giggly ones

a whispered reminder

All the girls, faces scrubbed

ponytails pulled back 

mine with braids along my crown

glitter sparkles peeking out

catching the light

It was our first on-stage-at-night

performance and when 

Mrs Davis stepped out in front 

nearly unrecognizable as the 

one who pulled our first teeth 

and patiently mopped up our spills 

our six year old hearts raced

We’d practiced for weeks under Grace’s tutelage

our Dick and Jane and Spot readers set aside 

until the rhythms were firmly implanted in us.

On stage her arms lifted, we stood at the ready and

as instructed our eyes were only on her 

focused 

our shoes stilled

squeals and squirms held

and oh did we perform

there were signals, a point at the right moment for

a tambourine shake

the clap of wood blocks

a ring of bells

I held tightly the red ribbon 

attached to a corner of the triangle 

tapped it at the signal intent 

on testing each point and side 

long before I understood 

the dynamics of geometry, 

the “rules” of rhythm.

Come Monday morning

though Mrs Davis had already 

set out our Dick and Jane and Spot readers again

there was a twinkle in her and,

despite wearing our playground-dusty school shoes

something in us kept time differently.