If only she still had those ballet shoes. Model C102—The Glissé by Capezio. A tapered heel with pink satin, featuring a design and construction for maximum support. She’d always thought of those shoes as magical—a red diamond from the sky, a pair of iridescent wings on her feet, a direct-flight out of mundane life.
When she wore those shoes, she was no longer that girl from the suburban south. She was the new breakout Broadway star, confident and dazzling, twirling, leaping, soaring center stage under a white-hot spotlight. She was the haughty daughter of an aristocrat, clad in jeweled silk dresses, flaunting diamonds and lace. She was a fashion icon, a ballet legend, a diva. She was anyone she wanted to be.
They said she was fantasizing then—stuck on a ridiculous pipedream. She’d argue she wasn’t any different than the other seven-year-olds. Seven-year-olds, with heavy eyelids draping over dazed eyes, disoriented by the Christmas lights flickering in and out like a galaxy of stars, feet numb from the unrelenting December night winds, hoping to spot a pair of antlers or a legendary man with a white beard. Little girls wildly recounting fantastic excursions with woodland critters and elven friends. Little boys imagining they were some miniature version of Superman, cape and tights and dashing looks and all, complete with a hero’s intention to save the world. She’d just envisioned herself as a dancer.
They said she was naïve then—relying on faith and nothing else. She’d argue she was simply the best of believers. She’d bow down to that divine entity called Fate, and she’d claim that her visions were sent to her by angels, that she just knew something fortuitous would happen to her, someday and somehow. A leap not quite right? A minor issue; it would become perfect in time. Didn’t land the lead role in the ballet? Hardly a loss; she’d be starring in a Broadway production soon.
It was a shame when the shoes had to go. She had tried to rewind time, but the seconds were already lost and the hours were scurrying away. She’d pull really hard to jam her foot in. She’d stretch the lace. She’d pop the threads. There were the signs of use. There were the signs of retirement. There were the signs of moving on.
She wasn’t ready to move on.
She didn’t want to rip up her ticket out of suburban society, and give up on that fantasy she had dwelt upon. She wanted the glory, the fame. She had imagined waves of faces watching her dance; she had practiced her signature, and had played pretend with her stuffed animals lined up like the paparazzi. She held onto that little island of dreams with everything she had. Defiant, still.
But that little island was floating on time, and time was now the wind. What could she do?
Will for the wind to change, for that dream to come to her? It was fading. It was merging with the fog. It was turning into a wispy smoke. She could only run, run after it in those shoes, pant, gasp, grapple for air, too little too late, until the satin was torn at last, and the last wisps of wind disappeared. Who could outrun time?
Back then, she had imagined the stage would find her. Now she’s traveled out, whistling through a darkness so exhilarating and stimulating, so real and tangible, that she could reach out and mold the tracks.
The next bend is Yosemite. And here, coming quick, are the Rockies. And now, the expansive Great Plains are approaching. Straight ahead is Illinois…or is it Indiana?
And perhaps she’ll still make it to New York City. Time broke a dream, but healed those old wounds. Time made her grow, but she’ll always be young enough to dream.