Snow Globes

My parents have never been avid music-listeners--
would choose NPR or silence in car rides--
so, growing up, my exposure to graceful melodies was limited
to the short, wind-up symphonies
of my snow globe collection.
My dad fastened glass shelves to my wall
for me to line them up
like a precious collection of single-track cassette tapes.

At night, I closed my bedroom door
and the blinds,
opened the closet doors,
turned the closet light on,
turned the overhead light off.
In my red and white striped nightgown--
the one that matched that of my American girl doll--
I would select one of the globes,
carefully lift it off the shelf.
I would shake it,
wind it,
and place it on my dresser.
Then, rushing to the center of my room,
only my bare tippy toes touching the rust-hued carpet,
I placed my left hand
on an invisible (yet broad) shoulder;
wrapped the fingers of my right around
the gentle touch of some prince,
right arm bent at a 45 degree angle.
I closed my eyes.

It was always the waltz. Even
When You Wish Upon A Star
was danced to the waltz. Especially
When You Wish Upon A Star
was danced to the waltz.
Not that I had any idea how to,
but none of my stuffed animals did either,
(they watched, impressed, from my bed)
and I was dancing with a man that loved me,
so proper footwork didn’t matter.
Not that I had any idea what romantic love was
(I would study the faces of the several snow globes I had
with dancing, figurine couples;
the tiniest sparkle in their eyes as they looked at each other
with some secret I was “too young to comprehend”)
but then the music stopped,

the glitter settled to the ground.
I felt my partner disappear from my embrace
like a glass shelf disappears into the wall, leaves
its objects floating as though they can take care of themselves.
He was just an idea.
They are always ideas.
I would open my eyes,
be back in my room,
my awkward reality dimly lit
from the light of an elementary school wardrobe.
It was the first time I ever really understood.