There is a thing that sometimes happens to me now that I am a parent, this wave of prescience, of emotion, of timelessness. These moments are ethereal, they move across me like the wafts of heat that waffle in the air of a hot day, obscuring that which we see behind them.
Yesterday I took Nahanni to see the broadcast of The Royal Opera's 'Nutcracker' at the movie theatre. She had seen a preview and asked me repeatedly so I bought tickets and took her, not really knowing if she would even last five minutes. She insisted that I bring her ballet slippers and she was adamant that she should wear her white princess dress, a big puffy meringue that when worn by a mop-haired 2-year-old is cute enough to melt even the hardest of hearts. She sat quietly awed in my arms during the first half, asking dozens of questions, interspersed regularly with 'When is the ballerina going to dance again?'. Then, as though a gust of fairy dust had wafted through to her, she slid from my lap and (after donning her ballet slippers, of course) stepped out into the aisle.
And she began to dance.
Here she dances, this lovely child, against a backdrop of fantasy, arms whirling, prancing, tip-toeing, leaping, twirling - her face a monument to the innocence and joy of one untouched by life. She swept up and down the aisle, awash in the joy of moving along to this beautiful music, inspired by every step she watched on screen. People began to poke each other and they leaned out of their seats to watch her and for 10 or 15 minutes there was only this darling little puff of a girl dancing in the aisle.
It was the most beautiful dance I've ever seen and it was hard for me not to cry as I watched her. There came upon this crowd, and most especially upon me, a wondrous joy that made the whole experience of this sumptuous ballet even more beautiful. I could see it in others' faces, and surely they could see it in mine.
A long, slow shattering of things.
That's what being a parent is.
I will watch my daughter dance this dance for the rest of my life.
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