The obedient dancer enters, on pointe. A sacrifice of white, she does not realize she is already a ghost of the star she should have become.
Her veil flies behind her, wing to fuel her leaps. Her eyes, already lost to the clouds, do not notice the pews are empty as she clears them, tiny hurdles easily managed. The altar is her final goal.
She arrives, still spinning, a human blur, a top. She turns and turns, skirts flaring, but respectfully never rising higher than lone bent knee. Dizzy with belief that she belongs only to the graceful embrace of heaven, she stops, holds position a moment longer.
She is the perfect portrait of a suspended dove.
Slowly, she lowers herself to one knee. An elegant arm rises, delicately crosses herself before collapsing further into what should have been a prima’s stage bow. Sadly, in the dusty candlelight of the church, the motion falls all too subservient. Nothing about her is left to flutter. No spotlight will shine as she disappears searching for blessings and approval.