The new year ticking near, I listen from my bedroom. Below is waltzing in the large parlor. Swirling dresses, elegant dancing, many guests dispersing in chatter. I am as shy as a new born foal, shaming the honor of my kin. As heir and eldest, my role romancing, mingling with Dr. and Mrs., Sir and Madame, sons, and daughters. Worrying with fear, swallowing anxiety I descend down the cascading stairs. My dress billows out, puffing as I walk. Approaching the French doors into the parlor, my mother rushes to me still in poise and class. I hear her familiar, harsh whisper in my ear. “It is about time you came to see the guests.” She goes, as fleeting as a locomotive, as delicate as a dove. Left to stand alone, expected to elate each guest. 

Afraid my tongue might make no sound, I start to meander through the crowd of distant acquaintances. Glancing, straining, hoping to glimpse someone I know  to ease the acid ache of timidity. As I walk, familiar sights I always knew are distant. Many people all around me, make me, Ellen, more certain of lurking loom, what will mother think? Midnight is almost near? A New year begins, but I just as before, I, Ellen  have not become more like her. 

 I desire to know how, my mother, belle of the waltz, image of a lady, befell the woe of me? No rhythm in dance like the graceful dove’s wings, no refinements like the sipping of tea,  One more year has almost passed, midnight is approaching.  I, Ellen, am still not becoming belle of the waltz.