I step to the cold mirror—face-to-face with my body, lump in my throat. I consider sneaking out, but I don’t. My body has not danced in a long time. I was born with a passion for dance. I remember it like it was yesterday when I took my first ballet class. Nineteen years later, I look down the mirror—to my left, to my right and I see tiny thighs toned and strong enough to carry the weight of their delicate bodies into the air like birds. The other dancers jump in the air with their feet landing forward in a continuous motion with their wings to guide them. The magic hour for birds must be 8 p.m. as they finish up their day. My magic hour is 2 a.m., but I belong with the birds but I, a twirling tabby will land firmly on all fours—I belong with the birds. I am an ungraceful cat and I will jump and land with a thud. I’m going to go run with the birds for a bit. I will be fine.