Flying

Three years. Three years since I fell. I was flying. Skirt twirling, arms bent, back arched. I remember running, leaping, and landing. But not landing the way I had practiced time and time again. My foot came down, hitting the stage and rolling out from underneath me. For a moment I was frozen, spotlight shining above, and then time swept back over me and I collapsed.

A cracked ankle, four broken toes, and seven months of rehab. Nine months passed, and when people said, “So when are you starting up again?” I would respond with a simple, “I don’t dance anymore.” My friends grew to accept that I wasn’t going back to the stage, and the ballet severed my contract. I packed my leotards away and shoved the box under my bed.

I got another job sitting behind a desk. My feet fidgeted and I ignored them, knowing they wouldn’t dance again.

At work one day, a man pulled out his phone. “Hey, guys. My daughter just had her first ballet recital. I’ve got video here if you want to see.”

A little huddle of gray-clad people filled his cubicle. Music began to echo out of his phone, and I slowly walked over, poking my head above the others.

Five little ballerinas were hopping around a stage. Their buns were crooked atop their heads, and they blinked harshly at the spotlights, but still they smiled. I looked at those smiles. Glittering and proud. I remembered how it felt, to stand in front of a crowd of people. The little ballerinas took their bows, and the man switched the screen to black.

“Hey, Julia,” he said, swiveling his chair around, “you used to dance, right?”

“Yeah,” I said, nodding, “I still do.”

That night I pulled the dusty box from under my bed. I knew it was time to fly again.