I studied ballet for about six years when I was young. I loved it. I had a friend, Molly, who was older than me who took me under her wing and encouraged me. My level had to wear leotards and standard tu-tus. Her level wore beautiful sheer mid-calf angled skirts. I thought those rayon skirts were so graceful and looked forward to when I earned wearing them too.
The ballet slippers were supple in my hands with a specific sweet tangy scent of the pink leather. There was a promise of beauty in those slippers – of grace and an orchestrated story waiting to unfold.
There are photos of young me front and center in performances, and like any young ballerina, I dreamed of being Clara in The Nutcracker.
My mom and I moved to a different city, different state, mid-way through middle school. If I wanted to continue my lessons I had to ride my bicycle across two major streets into the neighboring city. This didn’t last long and thus my dancing days were over.
When I was 19 I tried taking lessons. I put on a leotard and felt awkward and clunky. After a few classes, I folded up the leotard and put it away.
Sometimes dreams don’t happen and if you revisit them the dream has changed enough to where it doesn’t exist anymore.