The piece that is nominated for a Pushcart

I was asked what this piece is about.....so I decided to post it for you all to read!!

Enjoy!


Flying in Pink Satin

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. Does there come a time when it is just too late to reclaim a passion?

When the door opens, I follow into a room of floor to ceiling reflection. There is no hiding. A soft melody trails from the shelf as the instructor begins her lesson. I place my right hand firmly on the wooden bar but my body freezes in place. I will my feet to move like the others, but they won’t concede.


My gaze falls to the floor and I 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 the warmth begin in my heart.

As our stretches come to an end, 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 chest. 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.