He had not visited Goteborg for some time now. His last opportunity had been for a story over the country’s political climate of 1998. The haughty politics aside, it had good people, good food; enough to make him think of sticking around. But he never had. And perhaps he never would have shown up again if not for the brochure that he had received. Dansforum Performing Arts School in Goteborg, Sweden was celebrating its new term showcase. A brand new generation of free spirits to grace the stages and the director had wanted him to see. Too late had he learned why. Curse that Uma; why had he listened?
Then again, how couldn't you? He questioned himself, mulling over the list of the school's rising stars. No, not the entire list; just on a name; Justina Caughlin. She was an American, born and raised in Washington D.C.; a fifteen-year-old prodigy come to study under the Swiss Alps rather then the Washington Monument. His glossy tri-fold read that she disciplined her body in ballet and contemporary dance. Her favorite dance however, was the rhumba. Justina's other hobbies included swimming, reading historical fiction, and photo-bombing -- every chance that she got!
This was the paragraph endorsed by the school to sum Justina up. It was her introduction, or rather the audience's shortcoming of what to expect. So it was with every student. Their dancing was to do the rest and bring the loudspeaker up to their soul. Allow their soul to cry out, be it in passion, devotion, conviction, or melancholy.
Which will you show me? He thought with a run of a trembling hand through his dark hair. He hadn't even bothered to cut it for the occasion. Too late though; the announcer was calling for Froken Caughlin to the stage. Applause, applause... he didn't join in with them. He was fixated on the short, raven-haired girl stepping lightly out of the left wing. She was slender, but her frame was toned into one of a dancer. There could be no doubt. It spoke of a highly disciplined mind for one still in their youth. What had he been doing at fifteen? He couldn't even decide on journalism as his major until his junior year of college.
It's from her mother. He thought simply.
She was so pale. Almost luminous under the stage lighting. Maybe it was because of the damp grays and rose reds of her leotard and skirt. But then, where did the glow come from? Justina braced herself in the center of the stage. Held her pose, waiting for quiet. To him, it wouldn't come quick enough. Shut up, shut up! I need to see this!
Claps ceased, their echo fading a second later. Justina inhaled, raising deep-set eyes to the audience. Her arms spread out to them... to him, it seemed! She invited him, beckoned, encouraged... join me!
Music crept in and Justina's movements began. Slowly at first, then gaining speed and mounting in agility. He watched, heart frozen in wonder. She brought life to every chord of the orchestra with her body. He watched and caught every fluid movement. Sure and steady, swift and confident... yet they spoke of fears and of doubts.
No wait… Those were his own!
They rushed his ears along with the mighty music, made so by Justina's dance. They tugged on his heart instantly, as clutching and cruel as the day that he had first discovered Justina's existence. She hadn't been born then, but even so, her presence had proven powerful. How could he ensure that he wouldn't fail her in life? What advice could he give her, what support could he offer? For her and her mother?
And where did that leave him? Would his lifestyle disappear, ceasing to matter as it was faced with these two others? What would've changed? That had been the driving stake through his heart, the single grain of rice... his Waterloo, his Jericho...
But, you changed all the same. His conscience said without pity. It watched Justina in silence with him, refusing to split hairs with the truth.
The music leapt its tempo. Justina defied its height. It stretched and she broke past its limits. Cold sweat broke out over his palms. The fears, they had been cowardice; the doubts, selfishness. He was a journalist, a feeler, a people person- to people in over thirty countries around the world- and he knew art when he saw it.
Art. He stated in stunned sensation. Brought to me in the form of my daughter.
But he was not a father. He had chosen his way, his forum, his reaping... and now? Now he could understand what the Bible meant by 'flesh of flesh' and 'bone of bone'. Justina's dark hair and eyes were his. The pale skin, her mother's. Had she been this way at her birth, at her first Christmas or for her eighth birthday? Had she ever been in need of a warmer coat, a smiling teddy bear, or an extra kiss? Was there a time she could have had that sense of protection, or assurance, or love... had he robbed her of these things!?
Why can't I breath? He stepped back, steading himself. It was only a dance, but he was sensing how well Justina's mother had done. Justina's movements spoke openly of a gracious heart, an upbeat opinion of the world around her. A strand of hope strung her sequence together and trailed behind her, lingering for the audience to ponder upon.
Protect what is yours. He would advise her on her talent. If he could... couldn't he though?
NO! The old fear was back. The doubts with them. They shadowed his steps to the exit doors at the back of the hall. They had nothing new to say to him, yet they had not grown old. Justina's music was rushing again, running, flying off the stage to catch his ear once more before the doors could give their cold snap. But why would it think that it was strong enough to lure him back?
THE END
'Be very careful then, how you live- not as unwise but as wise,
making the most of every opportunity because the days are evil.'
~Ephesians 5:15-16~
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