(no subject)

She'll dance.

The thought, fleeting but certain, echoes in her head as she watches the tiny extension of her poised waiting, arms lifted, one toe weight-bearing, reaching for that counter and the object of her craving set upon it. She'll dance.

Yesterday, it was different. The dark head was bent over her crayon, chubby fist grasping, moving, leaving bright colour in its path. She pasted a leaf, newly bright from the yard, in the center of the page, held it up with a critical eye, ran to show it off, tiny hand clutching, face buried in denim skirts. And the thought then had been no question.

She shakes her head, laughing at herself, Who can harness a child's dreams? Who can know the future, after all? ... and pauses. Somewhere inside herself, there's a whisper she can't quite make out, an intimation of possibility that intrigues her but slips away like ice submerging into water. It frightens her, this hidden cache she can't tap, and she pushes the thought of it quickly away, turing again to watch her daughter, playing now with her twin, near-identical expressions of curiosity on small faces.

Eventually, they drag her away with pleas for a swim in the lake, and she gets caught up, a participant, whisper forgotten.... for now. In her dreams, she searches.