The Dancer

I turn on my favorite song to dance to: Ludovico Einaudi- Le Onde and prepare my stance. The mirrors that make up the four walls of the dance studio reflect my worn down face and my strong pose as I prepare myself to take a journey through my past, as this song usually does.

My mind thinks back to my childhood when my parents divorced while my legs take me on an adventure across the wooden floors. I feel the pain of staring out the window as my father grabbed his bags and carried them out to our old station wagon.

My arms flow in the air and gracefully twirl around me as I remember the year that I first fell in love. He was, to me, the most handsome of all the boys in my class. His teeth were not perfect and nor were his clothes. People mocked him for being poor, but I did not care, I still loved him.

My chin stays up strong as I spin on my straightened, muscular legs and I catch the rhythm of the sad story that the piano is making me remember. The night that I felt my first heart break over a death. My best friend did not have to be there, but he wanted to help those who needed him. He was still as poor as when I first fell in love with him, but he was no longer childish and he no longer wore a boyish handsomeness that had once attracted me. I used to believe that he was never meant to die that night, that it was all an act of innocence that he had been there that night.

I slow my tempo to the rythm of the song and look down at the floor as I keep my back rigid, I move my lengthened toes about me and raise my hands high as if reaching for something unattainable. The year my son was born was glorious. His deep green eyes stared at his new world marvelously and his little hands were mine to hold. Now he lives in a town countless of miles away with his family, his mother the last thing to enter his mind.

I dance alone in the studio. Carefully avoiding the reflection that I have become. I leap and I glide; I twirl and I stay rooted.

The song comes to an end and I softly lower my hands.

The End

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