Believe me, the bon bons are even better
than they look from the audience.
Mother Ginger has made them
with something far sweeter
than Belgian chocolate,
sweeter than old fashioned caramel.
And the snowflakes that fall
at the end of Act One,
they are the best kind of snow—
the kind that never melts
and never make you cold,
the kind that glitter and shimmer and shine.
Believe me, it’s hard to leave.
Before the final curtain’s drawn,
I wave goodbye and smile,
and the golden sleigh
carries me off stage right
as the Nutcracker Prince
waves goodbye and the Sugar
Plum Fairy blows me a kiss.
Believe me, it never gets better than this.
Every time I wake the next morning,
I look at myself in the mirror and notice
the diamond tiara is gone,
my white gown hangs rumpled,
a lily left out of water too long.
Don’t cry, I tell myself. Don’t cry,
though the tears start
to sting in my eyes. Don’t cry.
I tell myself, soon enough
my parents throw the big party again
and Fritz will wail on that blasted trumpet
and Drosselmeyer will bring me
my slender prince, disguised
as a nutcracker, and I will travel
through the strangest dream,
the most wonderful dream,
though I swear it is real.
For over a hundred twenty-five years,
it’s happened so many times
how could I not believe it?
And though I have always
managed to kill the king of the mice
just before he stabs my prince,
every time I fear this will be the time
I will miss with my shoe and
I’ll lose my prince forever.
And every time they push my sleigh
off stage, I pray it will stop
before it reaches the curtains,
pray that this will be the time
I get to stay. This will be the time
I wake to see the prince’s face,
and he’ll beam as he waves his hand
toward the window where the snow
is falling, catching the light,
and the symphony plays on,
a lilting waltz that spirals through
the applause, through dawn.
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