movies that play in my mind by Anonymous

I liked her hands. It was captivating, watching her delicate fingers dance across the keys to the music they were playing. They weren’t dancing very well. Instead, they stumbled from key to key, lost in their own home. She had such a short stature, even for a young child, that her feet barely touched the ground. She wore a muted pink, poofy dress that the vast movie screen didn’t do justice. Even from my far-back, scratchy, and stained movie theater seat, I could tell it was given by a distant relative who got her a size too big. The cotton candy-looking dress, which must’ve felt like anything but cotton candy, only made her seem even smaller. The pale yellow frills bordering the dress were worn out, the same shade as my popcorn going stale. And lastly, she wore bright red dress shoes, the kind that gives your heels blisters that take weeks to fully heal.

As she finished up her piece, she slid off the chair—a drop that seemed dangerously high for her—and walked towards the live audience, up close to the camera. As her face plastered on a wide smile, and her little hand lifted up for a small wave, the camera panned out, centering her in the middle of the vast stage, with only a piano far behind her. Oh, isn’t she cute? a woman whispered behind me. Or at least I think. I was too busy staring at her waving hand, which appeared frozen in motion. Her fingertips were raw and red from all her practice, a drastic contrast to her pale skin. As my eyes drifted from her hand to her face, I noticed the tears welling up that she quickly blinked away. Half a second was enough for me to see it. The mask. Playing pretend.

The audience clapped, whistled, and cheered as she did a slight curtsy. Maybe I’m being too harsh towards a child, but I saw her eyes dart around the sheet music in a panic like a kid lost in an empty mall. Even more lost than her fingers were. I saw her leg bouncing up and down out of nervousness, a habit as distracting as her contradicting outfit. Her dress’s desaturated colors forced all the focus on her flushed face and her aggressively red shoes. If she owned any other dress, things would’ve looked more cohesive. It’s a shame none of her other relatives were as generous.

I might’ve been the only one who didn’t clap. Maybe that’s why she seemed to make eye contact with me through the screen. But rather than hurt or even anger, her eyes were filled with relief. As if she understood why I wasn’t clapping. As if she’d realized just like I had, and maybe you have too: why I knew all the details no one else knew.