No. The girl could not do a backbend yet. She could do a bridge, starting from laying on the floor with her knees and elbows pointing upward, but she could not get there from standing.
The woman puts her hand on the(more) small of the girl's back and tells her to lean. The girl leans, her leg kicks out and then finds the ground again. Her hair cascades off of her back and reaches the ground before her hands do. With a slight fumble she reaches the goal: she is now an arc. Her body is beautiful like this, but it trembles and she soon laughs her way back flat against the earth.
I am standing, and I am wishing for a hand on the small of my back, a certainty that if I bend in a way that I don't think I can, I will have a scaffolding. I feel some days as though my body is supposed to be shaped in this kind of a backward arch, not bending forward into a cup. I want to feel my hipbones up there as sharp corners and to feel lightheaded for a moment, to feel the weight of my hair pulling on my scalp, to have it off my my neck.
If I cannot bend this way, if I cannot feel a hand on that part of my body that seems so unimportant until you do that sort of unexpected motion, I will try to use my words this way. I will keep closing my eyes and stretching back. I will lean against things that offer support, I will think of ways to describe my shape and its opposite.
The girl tries a backflip: she now must walk across the sky and find ground again. (less)
There's a feeling sometimes.
Restlessness, I guess you could call it. Or maybe wanderlust. It strikes out of the blue and wrenches your life open and all you can do is carry on, because really, who has the time or the means to just drop everything and go?
And(more) then it vanishes, just as quickly as it came.
Most of the time you can't quite remember what it feels like, but once in a while it lingers, that tang of melancholia, or bittersweet, or whatever, sort of like the last measures of the second movement of Gershwin's Piano Concerto in F. (less)
You were right to ask me the question the other night:
"Why do you keep putting yourself through this?"
It's like digging up the past
And reliving everything.
Every little thing that pushed
(more) Every fibre of my being
Burning with anger, passion, desires
Alas, the kind that will seemingly remain unfulfilled.
I'm at a loss for words
My brain tells me I've arrived a bit too late to the party
But the heart says the opposite
Who would you believe?
I have so much to tell you
But not many words to use
It's a frustrating game we play
We never really know where exactly the other one's at
And I wonder how much longer I can keep sleeping it off.(less)