Satin and Pavement

The grand hall was illuminated by the morning sun streaming through the columns. They were as tall as redwoods reaching up and out into an endless sky. You could see the dust floating about in the air like a fine mist. There was her small silhouette within the forest. The round curve of her forehead to her nose and then down and around over her top lip point and her plump bottom lip and chin. As she looked up she imagined there was some color at the top of the columns. She visualized the moist dark brown tree bark fading into a green canopy with a little bit of blue and white peeking through. You could see the reflection of it in her eyes.

Her hair was pulled back into a perfect blonde bun. She had a tiara on that mimicked the pearl and crystal gem stones in her bodice – tulle hovering over her white legs as she tip toed on the marble floor shoes dangling in her hands.

She paused for a moment in the silence and closed her lids softly. Then she sat, criss-crossed her legs and slid her wrapped feet in to touch the hard canvas hidden behind the elegant exterior. The soft satin ribbons securing the torturous devices as she lifted all at once from the ground to her pointed toes arms like wings gracefully opening up over head. She indulged in the symphony in her mind playing ravenous Tchaikovsky and dreamlike, whimsical Satie. She glided and whirled around the columns – writhing in agony as well as she would burst with joy and love. She articulated with intelligent transmissions of empathy, passion and fervor despite her youth.

The music came to an end when she became distracted by a pain in her head. Then she noticed there was no one around. No one was calling her. Where was her mother? She heard a rumbling in the other room. Adults were in some kind of meeting. She looked closer and saw her mother. The room looked like a court room: the columns, the white color, the marble. It was all so majestic.

In the center, the room fell away. She could see the city street, but it was silent. Her mother’s rosy cheeks were more flush than usual. Her charcoal tartan stroller coat and voguemont felted wool hat – her hair in perfect curls – She was so beautiful. Especially when she cried.

The little girl walked closer. She was worried she would now be late for the audition. She would be the youngest ballerina to enter the company. She assumed all of the white bearded gentlemen in robes were the judges of course.

She walked closer. Her white tulle and bodice blood red. Her pale neck lay limp over her mother’s arm. She could smell her mother’s soft perfume. Her breath warm on her face and tears like rain drops smacking the young girl’s skin.

​All at once everything sped up. The images she was witnessing were now moving at full pace. The elegant, beautiful woman was seizing and screaming and gripping the little ballerina, staining her tartan coat in red. The truck driver did not see the four feet of her entire glimmering self skipping happily across the dank grey New York City street. It all happened just so fast.