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I fidget with my hair, smoothing an already perfect knot atop my head. I check the
pink satin ribbons criss-crossed at my ankles to reassure myself of their stability.
Their pink is a bit more faded than the last time my fingers tightened them; their
feel is softer too, but their strength is still there. I hope to pull from them what
I need. They must do so much more today than simply hold slippers to my feet.
I look around the small waiting room which has begun to fill with others dressed
like me, black lycra with fluttering organza skirts. Their faces are smooth, devoid
of crows feet and laugh lines. Even their ribbons are youthful, shining a much
brighter shade of pink than mine. I look down at my feet once again, dull and dirty
satin staring back at me. How can I expect these shoes to take me places I haven’t
been in years? Does there come a time when it is just too late to reclaim a passion?
A door opens and smaller but similarly dressed bodies prance out with smiles across
their faces. They have no worries. They know they belong. I follow into a room of
floor to ceiling reflection. There is no hiding.
The girls take their places at the wooden bar while a woman introduces herself. I
feel it’s mainly for my benefit as the others already seem to know her. A soft
melody trails from the shelf as the instructor begins her lesson. I place my right
hand firmly on the bar but my body freezes in place. I will my feet to move like the
others, but they won’t concede. The music around me fades.
I look down to my feet and remember. I am taken to a joyous place where these same
dull satin shoes soared and my heart did too. A warmth starts in my toes, climbing
up my calves, my knees, my thighs. My feet start to find positions they hadn’t in
years. They move like the motions were just made yesterday, rather than years ago.
First position, second position, demi plie, grande plie, releve and back down again.
I feel a warmth begin in my heart; it’s familiar.
Our stretches end and we line up. One by one the girls go ahead of me, each taking a
few sashays then leaping into the air. I feel the fear and chill creep back into my
heart. Simple warm-ups and bends are one thing. Can I reclaim the sensation of
flying?
My turn approaches. I look to the instructor, a woman who is a bit seasoned like
myself. She smiles at me and nods her head. Maybe she sees something familiar in me.
I turn back and the line in front of me has disappeared. My arms form an “L”; the
right straight in front, left out to the side. My right foot is behind me in
preparation. On one and two, I sashay and on three my left foot crosses in front
while my arms cross at my chest. On four my arms burst out from my body as I lift
off the ground. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, my head held high, my
dulled satin shoes no longer appearing that way. The corners of my mouth have turned
toward the heavens. I’m flying once again.
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FEATURE STORY 
