The Ice Princess

I’m not sure how it happened, but my daughter has figured out the art of casual dismissal.  She lets go of my hand and joins her second-grade class, everyone costumed, each mimicking lines and actions for their thirty-minute play.  Everyone gravitates towards her, the star of the show, touching her impulsively, making playful faces.  I tell her I love her.  The Ice Princess responds with a half-hearted flap of her hand.

I go to sit in the audience.  The theater's lighting is terrible, but the seat I’m forced into bears the brunt of a spotlight.  As if it’s natural, Grace is next to me in shadow.  She insists on sitting together even after the divorce as a gesture of civility, but it’s the distant kind you would show a dying beggar.  I adjust my clothing under the heat and thank God the play is about to begin.

The Ice Princess sits in her tower, alone, waiting for her Prince.

The stage floor is latticed white to imitate a frozen lake; the center is the Princess’ tower.  Each character gets a short dance and a little song:  everyone’s special.  The Prince is a plump Polynesian boy with little talent but the right attitude.

Suitor after suitor try, but each fail to heed her warnings and all fall through weak ice and into the lake below.  Only her true love takes the time to listen.  The Ice Princess drops a hair ribbon from the tower to mark the safest passage across the lake.  She is finally rescued, and love reigns supreme.

The play finishes and we all applaud.  Even in the shadow, Grace is like a beacon to my daughter, the focus of her appreciation.  I’m left standing in the spotlight, hot, frozen, with no way across the shattered ice.