TOE SHOES

“I’m not taking anymore dance lessons!” I shouted to my mother as I slammed down the phone receiver. Janie had just phoned to tell me that Miss Rice, our instructor, thought I was the clumsiest and most hopeless dancer at Park Street studio. I did continued with ballet lessons, however, once my mother and Miss Rice cleared up prima donna Janie’s little lie.

This is one of my most lucid memories from my last year as a ballet student. That year I struggled to make the intrepid yet glorious transition from soft slippers to toe shoes. But the glory was short lived, for to my horror, Mother made me dress like a boy for the ballet recital in Laurel Theater. I quit dancing after that.

TOE SHOES

My black toe shoes are gone.

For all the years, I hid them

on a topmost shelf

where only I could see their

satin backs and feel

my dancing days were only

a step away. Yesterday, I

reached for them, and in their place

only dust. Someone knew, and now

I know. My dancing days are the days

I once knew.