Helen

In my story How I got Another Sister I recall the arrival of my half-sister Helen, who, unbeknownst to me, my father had had out-of-wedlock before I was born. “I was here first” I reminded my father when he instructed me to share my room with her. Although I was very unhappy the day I had to give up my solitude, over the years my appreciation of Helen did grow, until her death when I wrote this poem.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY HELEN
Welcome, sweet springtime
My sister Helen would play, and then
the tune on the piano would change
to Happy Birthday. Helen, singing
lustily in her soprano,
Happy Birthday to me.

Happy Birthday to you
dear Helen, I hope
you’re having a ball,
a blast, I hope
they’re tooting horns
for you, and your
death is filled
with joyous recognition
of your wonderful self.

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.