His Legs
His legs are long and nimble, his movements lithe and agile like a cat, like a shadow. To walk and to dance are one and the same for him, for every step is so graceful, so flawlessly executed that one can hardly tell whether his sauntering gait is merely intended as a casual stroll or an elegant waltz. He glides across the floor as if his feet are scarcely on the ground. If life is a dance, then he is the embodiment of music—the very soul of the melody expressed! Sometimes the music is soft and sweet, like a lullaby; sometimes wild and fierce, like a tarantella. But always he is there to catch me when I fall. When my pirouettes falter and my soubresauts stumble and all seems to be spinning out of control, he never fails to sweep me off my feet.
And I sit in his lap, a child again—looking for a father, looking for a friend—and he is everything I've ever wanted and everything I'll ever need. But after all of his deception he is not worth of such praise (or so he thinks) and he falls down to his knees, begging for forgiveness—from me and from God—for every fault and every flaw until I, too, am on my knees, wrapping my arms around him. Later he'll be ashamed of showing weakness, but I know that it is strength.
I love his legs because when he's on his knees is when he stands the tallest.