Dance Until Your Feet Can Soar

July 3, 2010
By srubens BRONZE, Bronxville, New York
srubens BRONZE, Bronxville, New York
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

Mozart is my puppet master. He is the air that I breathe and my heart when it beats. I have given him my heart, and he plays wicked games with it. He taunts me, puling my heart this way and that, he leaves my body no choice but to follow him. At his command I leap into the air, defying gravity itself, still higher and higher I soar, my back arched. I seed his every command. When I finally do come back to earth, his strong arms are there to catch me. In his embrace, I would stay forever, but he cruelly pushes me away, and as I twirl, I am lost in confusion.

The weight of my despair pushes me further into the smooth, glossy floor. My audience eyes me skeptically as I crawl my way to brighter days. My tears soak into the ripped fabric around me knees, slowing my escape. And then he finds me. He grabs my arms and throws me into the sky above him, this time I doubt he will catch me. A wisp of hair escapes the tight bun on my head. It plays gracefully with the air as I fall, sticking to my face as I make impact with the strong arms of the boy I love.

In his arm I gaze into the face that haunts me day and night, looking, searching for any sign of admiration, his face is cold as stone. My curiosity gets the best of me and I reach up to touch his strong jaw, to feel the warmth that will confirm he is indeed a living, breathing man. Before my fingertips can make contact with his body, he throws me away from him, and I twirl, lost in a blur of heartbreak.

I slide dangerously across the tears I have spilled, leaping into a split so that I might redeem my graceful appearance. My quick thinking pays off, and the audience ooos and awes at the beauty of my abused, calloused, dehydrated figure. When I land, applause breaks out so loud, that the noise drowns out my own beating heart.

"Thank you, thank you." I smile towards the lights, now speckled with roses.

My applause is cut short, by a rude, sharp voice, "Nesa!” My mother sighs, her head shakes back and forth, her mouth opening slightly so that a barely audible sound escapes her bitten lips. “Nesa! Come down from here!" My mother scolds me, turning down the music that blast from my Kim Possible-stickered ipod speakers, "you've spilled your juice all over the new mahogany, floor! And”, her voice gains strength with every word that tumbles from her mouth, “OH MY GOD! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO YOUR TIGHTS? NESTA I BOUGHT THOSE YESTERDAY!" my mother's voice shakes with anger. Come down from there this instance!!" She repeats. As I hop off the coach, the room transforms before my very eyes. The spotlights I have been gazing into transform into the florescent, cheap, lights my mother bought at Home Depot last month. My stage becomes a sticky mess of spilled orange juice, and cheap, slippery tile. I sigh and walk to the adjacent coach where my audience awaits eagerly. "Someday I will be on that stage." I whisper into the soft, warm ear of Mr. Fuzzy. "Someday." I repeat to his companion Mrs. Snuggle.

Six years, two boyfriends, three best friends, and nearly three hundred pairs of tights have danced me by. The lights from the Royal Opera House of London wink and smile at me as I center myself on the stage that will determine my very future. As the music commences, the butterflies in my stomach elevate my heels from the ground. In the crowd, thousands of people await my failure, but one person, one smile, one heart, one voice, and two teary eyes sing out sweet encouragements to my floating feet. Mozart is still my puppet master but this time, my mother has become his strings. Her cheers become my music, her voice lifts my soul, and with it, my body soars higher than humanly possibly.

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