My daughter lightly glides across the stage,
an almost ghostlike figure with her pale
skin and soft footsteps. Her slender fingers
delicately flutter as she gestures
to Pamina. “No,” she sings, “he loves you
still, and death is not a choice
to choose.” I marvel at her graceful ways.
She takes the knife, and guides Pamina from
desired destruction to Tamino’s love.
I watch and wonder, wishing I could lead,
as easily and lovely, our three children.
My body, heavier and earth bound plods
and stumbles. I bless my children daily,
so it seems, with my ungraceful blunders.

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