Jim says, “When you’re on your first
dance tour in America, kiddo,
call me. I’ll be in the front row.”
My throat feels
as rough as his hands
which hold mine
for what might be the last time in this life.
“Thanks, Jim.
For everything.”
FEAR
of
FALLING
When I see Govinda, he says, “Sorry we fought.
I agree you need to try and master
whatever your leg doesn’t prevent you from doing.
But I hope someday you’ll learn to move
the mind and heart, not just your body.”
We pick up where we left off:
try to balance in the full-sit,
try to lunge without stumbling.
On the ground after my thirteenth fall of the day,
I pummel the carpet in frustration.
“You look like my kid sister
throwing a temper tantrum,” Govinda says.
Being Govinda’s kid sister is almost as bad
as being Jim’s “kiddo.”
“Veda? We’re going to play a game.”
Now Govinda’s acting as if I am his kid sister.
“I’m
not
a
kid.”
Or his sister, but I don’t add that.
“I’m
your
teacher.” Govinda mimics my voice.
“Listen to me for once.”
He walks to a far corner of the study,
sits in the chair by the writing desk,
stretches his long legs out, and says, “Stand on my feet.”
“Stand on your feet?”
“Place your feet sideways over mine, Veda.
Toes on the floor. Knees bent in the half-sitting pose.”
“Why?”
“Please?”
I position myself the way he wants,
my toes touching the earth,
my feet crisscrossing over his,
my knees bent out to the sides.
He stretches out his hands and tells me to lay my palms on his.
We’re touching.
The entire length of both my palms
on both of his.
Music fills my ears—fast, high-pitched,
like the buzz of a bee.
We’re closer than I’ve been to any other boy my age.
And Govinda looks gorgeous,
loves dance,
and is an amazing, generous teacher.
He lifts
his legs,
his feet,