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Tiny Dancer (c) Copyright 2002, Kalvere. All rights reserved.
The front of the car wasn't too badly damaged, but the side behind the driver's door was punched into a "U" shape. The male driver was dazed, but seemed otherwise unharmed. He was sitting with one leg out of the open car door, mumbling "My daughter ... my daughter..."
The back seat passenger -- his daughter -- was going to be difficult to extricate. All I could see through the tangled metal was two huge brown eyes in a tiny, angelic face, with a lot of pink all around her. Maybe she was wrapped up in a pink blanket, it seemed to be too much pink to be just her clothes.
"Hi, can you hear me?"
Her eyes blinked and followed my movements, but she didn't speak.
The driver of the truck that hit this car was hovering over our shoulders saying "Oh my God! Oh my God!" over and over.
We yelled for the troopers to get this truck driver out of our way. The young trooper that finally came over looked harried ... we are a world of voyeurs, people seem to have a morbid fascination about driving by a wreck. The young trooper cringed at the sound of squealing brakes; the cars lined up were nearly rear-ending each other while gawking. I softened my approach: "I know you have a tough job, but we really need you to get this truck driver off the road, he's right on top of us, we can't work. We have a child trapped in the back."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
We had the male driver out of the car, sitting inside the ambulance. He had a gash on his head and a broken wrist, but he didn't seem to notice. He kept asking about his daughter. "Is she OK? Is she OK? Can I see her? Please tell me she's OK..."
We had cut away the mangled door. We could see the little girl clearly now, but couldn't quite get her out yet. The pink she was surrounded by was a frilly tutu, she was dressed as a ballerina. She had a pink sequined leotard top, a big circle of pink netting around her dainty waist, her dark hair in a bun on top of her head with a huge pink bow, pink tights, and she was holding tightly to little pink ballet slippers with long laces. On her feet were white tennis shoes.
"Hey, can you hear me? We're gonna get you out of here. Your such a pretty ballerina ."
She just looked at me with big brown eyes.
The cutting torch stopped. In the sudden silence I heard two things: The annoying ding ding ding of the "door ajar" warning buzzer and ... singing. The radio was still on. It was an Elton John song, the name of it would come to me later: Tiny Dancer. Eerily fitting for the little ballerina in the back seat.
" ... as I say softly ... slowly...
Hold me closer tiny dancer...
Count the headlights on the highway..."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Somewhere there was a children's dance recital about to begin ... missing one ballerina. The instructor rushing around, trying to fill the gap in the dance line. Cursing the late parents who didn't get their little ballerina here on time. Wondering why something always has to go wrong, no matter how precisely she organizes the recitals.
She will feel guilty having thought these trivial thoughts when she sees the crash on the news that night.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The little girl was still not talking. We asked the father if she speaks, and how old she was.
"Of course she can speak, why? What's wrong? She's 8 years old. She's my only daughter. Is she OK? Please take care of her, please let her be OK."
"We're doing all we can, sir."
He hung his head and started to cry. It was starting to hit him.
"No ... oh God no..."
'We're doing all we can' means there is a lot we have to do. It also means what we CAN do may not be enough. It isn't good news. It isn't what he wanted to hear. He wanted to hear "Yes, she will be OK." He wanted to hear what we couldn't say. I turned back to the car, and behind me I heard the father saying "It's all my fault..." Getting hit in the rear door while traveling the speed limit in your own lane couldn't very easily be his fault, but he felt responsible for the safety of his daughter. He blamed himself. He failed to keep her safe.
We got the car cut up enough to peel the roof back, to be able to reach her, to touch her. She looked up at me with her huge dark eyes. She didn't move anything but her eyes.
She had make-up on for the stage, a little bit of sparkly blue around her eyes, perfectly painted rose bud lips, little pink blush on her cheeks. She was very pale, and the carefully applied little-girl make up looked stark by contrast.
"Hold on little ballerina. We're going to get you out of here. Do you hurt? Can you tell me? You're such a brave little girl. What's your name?"
She just looked at me, and when she opened her mouth as if to speak a tiny bubble of blood burst on her lips and slid down her chin. Her eyes got wider, she let out a soft little gasp, and then was silent. Still staring up at me with those big brown eyes ... but they were empty now.
I pressed the oxygen mask to her face anyway, quickly finished strapping her to a board to get her out.
"OK, take her up! Take her up! We're losing her! Hurry!"
Please come back, little ballerina. Please don't die. Your daddy is asking about you, he needs you. Please don't make me tell him that you're gone.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
At that same moment, somewhere, little ballerinas are starting to dance for their parents at a dance recital ... missing one ballerina. Videos and cameras flash, capturing this memory in their child's life. This moment in time. Pictures they will look at and smile at when she's older. But one little dancer won't get older. This is her last moment in time. She'll forever be an 8 year old ballerina, dancing with her angel wings, inside her father's heart.
Every time this class gets together, although her little dancers are all evenly spaced, the dance instructor will be painfully aware of a gap in the dance line. She'll have to suppress an overwhelming urge to drop everything and rush home, to see if her own children are all right, give them hugs and kisses, hold them and never let them go.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
In the ambulance, the father keeps asking "Will she be OK? Is she going to be OK?"
We can't meet his eyes, we say nothing, and that says it all.
Manny reaches out and takes the man's hand and squeezes it, the man clings to it and collapses into his arms. "She's my baby daughter... Oh God... It's all my fault..."
Manny shakes his head. "It isn't your fault."
The man looked up at Manny with anguished eyes, "You don't understand ... she wanted to sit in the front, with me. They say kids shouldn't be in front seats with airbags ... it isn't safe. I told her she had to be in the back... But the airbags didn't even go off. The front is OK... I'm OK... She would have been OK.... But... I put her in back... I put her in back so she'd be safe..."
Manny blinked back tears. He has a daughter too. She's six. She rides in the back, where it's safer. He'll call her the minute we get back to the station.
The man jerks his head up, "What will I tell my wife?" He gripped Manny's shoulder, pleading, "Please, please ... make her OK."
The car radio is silent now, but I still hear the song in my head...
"... Ballerina ... you must have seen her,
dancing in the sand...
And now she's in me, always with me,
tiny dancer in my hand..."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
We wheel the little girl to the ambulance on a gurney, with her semicircle of pink around her. The truck driver is on the side of the road with the young trooper. He watches with horrified eyes. He puts both hands over his face and sinks to his knees in the grass. This accident wasn't his fault, a drunk driver caused him to hit this car, but his was the vehicle that crushed the life from the little ballerina. He'll always remember that. The trooper averts his eyes. He won't subject himself to anymore death than he has to. It's too much, too often.
When we start to put her in the back of the ambulance a tiny pink ballet slipper falls to the ground. I picked it up and tucked it back in her hand with the other slipper.
"Heaven must need tiny ballerinas. Dance little angel ... dance..."
I try to block out the sobs of her father.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
And somewhere, at a dance recital, a mother tries to find her husband among the other parents, and waits for her only daughter to dance out on the stage. Instead, she sees two police officers being pointed in her direction.
Music starts, smiling little girls in pink line up on the stage, the girls begin to dance as a young mother is led from the audience. In the lobby outside she hears bits and pieces of words "...accident ... husband all right...I will take you to them... I'm sorry, I don't know her condition ... I'm sorry, this is all I know..." But she hears what he isn't telling her. What she hears is that a piece of her heart has been torn from her chest, and lies forever crushed on the highway.
Behind her, through the open door to the auditorium, the music fades. Little ballerinas take their bows. Missing one ballerina. The parents smile and applaud.
But one little ballerina isn't ever going to dance again.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
e p i l o u g e
Two years later I am driving home from a party. Talking and laughing with my date. The radio begins a song ... by Elton John, Tiny Dancer. I become very quiet, and then change the station.
"What is it? What's wrong?" My confused date asks when she sees my face.
I just shake my head. She asks me, "What? What are you thinking about?"
What can I tell her? I'm thinking about a little girl in pink who's name I never knew ... about a little ballet slipper falling from the relaxed hands of a tiny ballerina ... I just shake my head. We ride the rest of the way home in silence.
I will never forget you, little ballerina ... your big brown eyes looking at me, and your angelic little face surrounded in pink. And your last breath ... with all the noise of the highway, the honking horns, the cutting torch, the squealing brakes, the radio calls, the sirens... All I heard was your final breath, the soft gasp when you left this world. And I saw the moment the light went out of your eyes. You're always with me, tiny dancer.
"... Ballerina ...
you must have seen her,
dancing in the sand...
And now she's in me ...
always with me.
Tiny Dancer in my hand."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(c)2002 Copyrighted to Kalvere. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce or distribute in any form without author's permission. Kalvere is from Minnesota and welcomes any comments at the following email address: KalTheRebel@aol.com. This story contains portions of the song "Tiny Dancer" (c) Music by Elton John, Lyrics by Bernie Taupin.
***Submitted by Richard With Permission***
The front of the car wasn't too badly damaged, but the side behind the driver's door was punched into a "U" shape. The male driver was dazed, but seemed otherwise unharmed. He was sitting with one leg out of the open car door, mumbling "My daughter ... my daughter..."
The back seat passenger -- his daughter -- was going to be difficult to extricate. All I could see through the tangled metal was two huge brown eyes in a tiny, angelic face, with a lot of pink all around her. Maybe she was wrapped up in a pink blanket, it seemed to be too much pink to be just her clothes.
"Hi, can you hear me?"
Her eyes blinked and followed my movements, but she didn't speak.
The driver of the truck that hit this car was hovering over our shoulders saying "Oh my God! Oh my God!" over and over.
We yelled for the troopers to get this truck driver out of our way. The young trooper that finally came over looked harried ... we are a world of voyeurs, people seem to have a morbid fascination about driving by a wreck. The young trooper cringed at the sound of squealing brakes; the cars lined up were nearly rear-ending each other while gawking. I softened my approach: "I know you have a tough job, but we really need you to get this truck driver off the road, he's right on top of us, we can't work. We have a child trapped in the back."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
We had the male driver out of the car, sitting inside the ambulance. He had a gash on his head and a broken wrist, but he didn't seem to notice. He kept asking about his daughter. "Is she OK? Is she OK? Can I see her? Please tell me she's OK..."
We had cut away the mangled door. We could see the little girl clearly now, but couldn't quite get her out yet. The pink she was surrounded by was a frilly tutu, she was dressed as a ballerina. She had a pink sequined leotard top, a big circle of pink netting around her dainty waist, her dark hair in a bun on top of her head with a huge pink bow, pink tights, and she was holding tightly to little pink ballet slippers with long laces. On her feet were white tennis shoes.
"Hey, can you hear me? We're gonna get you out of here. Your such a pretty ballerina ."
She just looked at me with big brown eyes.
The cutting torch stopped. In the sudden silence I heard two things: The annoying ding ding ding of the "door ajar" warning buzzer and ... singing. The radio was still on. It was an Elton John song, the name of it would come to me later: Tiny Dancer. Eerily fitting for the little ballerina in the back seat.
" ... as I say softly ... slowly...
Hold me closer tiny dancer...
Count the headlights on the highway..."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Somewhere there was a children's dance recital about to begin ... missing one ballerina. The instructor rushing around, trying to fill the gap in the dance line. Cursing the late parents who didn't get their little ballerina here on time. Wondering why something always has to go wrong, no matter how precisely she organizes the recitals.
She will feel guilty having thought these trivial thoughts when she sees the crash on the news that night.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The little girl was still not talking. We asked the father if she speaks, and how old she was.
"Of course she can speak, why? What's wrong? She's 8 years old. She's my only daughter. Is she OK? Please take care of her, please let her be OK."
"We're doing all we can, sir."
He hung his head and started to cry. It was starting to hit him.
"No ... oh God no..."
'We're doing all we can' means there is a lot we have to do. It also means what we CAN do may not be enough. It isn't good news. It isn't what he wanted to hear. He wanted to hear "Yes, she will be OK." He wanted to hear what we couldn't say. I turned back to the car, and behind me I heard the father saying "It's all my fault..." Getting hit in the rear door while traveling the speed limit in your own lane couldn't very easily be his fault, but he felt responsible for the safety of his daughter. He blamed himself. He failed to keep her safe.
We got the car cut up enough to peel the roof back, to be able to reach her, to touch her. She looked up at me with her huge dark eyes. She didn't move anything but her eyes.
She had make-up on for the stage, a little bit of sparkly blue around her eyes, perfectly painted rose bud lips, little pink blush on her cheeks. She was very pale, and the carefully applied little-girl make up looked stark by contrast.
"Hold on little ballerina. We're going to get you out of here. Do you hurt? Can you tell me? You're such a brave little girl. What's your name?"
She just looked at me, and when she opened her mouth as if to speak a tiny bubble of blood burst on her lips and slid down her chin. Her eyes got wider, she let out a soft little gasp, and then was silent. Still staring up at me with those big brown eyes ... but they were empty now.
I pressed the oxygen mask to her face anyway, quickly finished strapping her to a board to get her out.
"OK, take her up! Take her up! We're losing her! Hurry!"
Please come back, little ballerina. Please don't die. Your daddy is asking about you, he needs you. Please don't make me tell him that you're gone.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
At that same moment, somewhere, little ballerinas are starting to dance for their parents at a dance recital ... missing one ballerina. Videos and cameras flash, capturing this memory in their child's life. This moment in time. Pictures they will look at and smile at when she's older. But one little dancer won't get older. This is her last moment in time. She'll forever be an 8 year old ballerina, dancing with her angel wings, inside her father's heart.
Every time this class gets together, although her little dancers are all evenly spaced, the dance instructor will be painfully aware of a gap in the dance line. She'll have to suppress an overwhelming urge to drop everything and rush home, to see if her own children are all right, give them hugs and kisses, hold them and never let them go.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
In the ambulance, the father keeps asking "Will she be OK? Is she going to be OK?"
We can't meet his eyes, we say nothing, and that says it all.
Manny reaches out and takes the man's hand and squeezes it, the man clings to it and collapses into his arms. "She's my baby daughter... Oh God... It's all my fault..."
Manny shakes his head. "It isn't your fault."
The man looked up at Manny with anguished eyes, "You don't understand ... she wanted to sit in the front, with me. They say kids shouldn't be in front seats with airbags ... it isn't safe. I told her she had to be in the back... But the airbags didn't even go off. The front is OK... I'm OK... She would have been OK.... But... I put her in back... I put her in back so she'd be safe..."
Manny blinked back tears. He has a daughter too. She's six. She rides in the back, where it's safer. He'll call her the minute we get back to the station.
The man jerks his head up, "What will I tell my wife?" He gripped Manny's shoulder, pleading, "Please, please ... make her OK."
The car radio is silent now, but I still hear the song in my head...
"... Ballerina ... you must have seen her,
dancing in the sand...
And now she's in me, always with me,
tiny dancer in my hand..."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
We wheel the little girl to the ambulance on a gurney, with her semicircle of pink around her. The truck driver is on the side of the road with the young trooper. He watches with horrified eyes. He puts both hands over his face and sinks to his knees in the grass. This accident wasn't his fault, a drunk driver caused him to hit this car, but his was the vehicle that crushed the life from the little ballerina. He'll always remember that. The trooper averts his eyes. He won't subject himself to anymore death than he has to. It's too much, too often.
When we start to put her in the back of the ambulance a tiny pink ballet slipper falls to the ground. I picked it up and tucked it back in her hand with the other slipper.
"Heaven must need tiny ballerinas. Dance little angel ... dance..."
I try to block out the sobs of her father.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
And somewhere, at a dance recital, a mother tries to find her husband among the other parents, and waits for her only daughter to dance out on the stage. Instead, she sees two police officers being pointed in her direction.
Music starts, smiling little girls in pink line up on the stage, the girls begin to dance as a young mother is led from the audience. In the lobby outside she hears bits and pieces of words "...accident ... husband all right...I will take you to them... I'm sorry, I don't know her condition ... I'm sorry, this is all I know..." But she hears what he isn't telling her. What she hears is that a piece of her heart has been torn from her chest, and lies forever crushed on the highway.
Behind her, through the open door to the auditorium, the music fades. Little ballerinas take their bows. Missing one ballerina. The parents smile and applaud.
But one little ballerina isn't ever going to dance again.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
e p i l o u g e
Two years later I am driving home from a party. Talking and laughing with my date. The radio begins a song ... by Elton John, Tiny Dancer. I become very quiet, and then change the station.
"What is it? What's wrong?" My confused date asks when she sees my face.
I just shake my head. She asks me, "What? What are you thinking about?"
What can I tell her? I'm thinking about a little girl in pink who's name I never knew ... about a little ballet slipper falling from the relaxed hands of a tiny ballerina ... I just shake my head. We ride the rest of the way home in silence.
I will never forget you, little ballerina ... your big brown eyes looking at me, and your angelic little face surrounded in pink. And your last breath ... with all the noise of the highway, the honking horns, the cutting torch, the squealing brakes, the radio calls, the sirens... All I heard was your final breath, the soft gasp when you left this world. And I saw the moment the light went out of your eyes. You're always with me, tiny dancer.
"... Ballerina ...
you must have seen her,
dancing in the sand...
And now she's in me ...
always with me.
Tiny Dancer in my hand."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
(c)2002 Copyrighted to Kalvere. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce or distribute in any form without author's permission. Kalvere is from Minnesota and welcomes any comments at the following email address: KalTheRebel@aol.com. This story contains portions of the song "Tiny Dancer" (c) Music by Elton John, Lyrics by Bernie Taupin.
***Submitted by Richard With Permission***
wow.... soo speachless, i'm new in this forums, but i wanted to quickly learn about other people. This is the first thing i've learned so far, and it is truely strong. mmm.. i'm Speachless. well, bye bye purrdy-princess 
be happy with Christ! 'Cause i know i would be too.
