Pointes Bleues



My ballet teacher was younger than most. Nicer too. Kind but stern. Sharp but conforting.

Warm eyes drapping my little self as she ruthlessly stretched my back.

She believed in me, and I wanted to believe her.

Hours of russian ballet played on our bulky TV,

and I danced along in our 1 room apartment, five people too small.

Days i spent on Repetto looking at expensive pointes i could not fill.

Months longing for the albeit short but injustifiable fifty minute trip to the Opéra Garnier.

Years following dubious advices claming to have found the secret to bending feet and toes into the perfect arc, extending legs beyond rib cages.

Despite Her steady presence,

I knew i would not dance for long.

This would not be my call to art, nor to life.

On a february evening, on the peaceful walk home from the art center,

I grieved my dream before it was buried.

The very first time I learned to let go.