The Last Dance

It was our last dance recital,

our very last.

My beloved teacher, moving away,

the studio to be closed forever.

It was a small studio,

and I, mid-teens,

the one from whom

the most was expected.

Not due to great talent

but because I had studied

with my teacher for so long.

The highlight of my solo,

a triple-fouette turn.

Rise to pointe on the supporting leg,

extend the free leg to the side,

pull it back in to initiate

the rotation.

Three times!

I could barely do it.

Truth be told, I couldn’t do it.

Through practice after practice,

I failed to complete the third turn.

Two-and-a-half rotations,

landing with an inglorious thump, 

but never three.

“Can’t we take the triple fouetté out?”

I begged.

But my teacher only smiled.

“You can do it, Marion.

Just keep trying.”

I would have done anything for her,

including a triple fouette turn

before all those strangers

gathered in the vast cavern

of our high school auditorium.

Anything!

If only I could.

So I kept trying.

Final practice in the studio …

failure.

“You can do it!”

Dress rehearsal …

failure.

“It will be fine.

Just wait and see.”

The night of the performance

I stepped onto the stage,

brimming with terror.

Nonetheless,

I danced.

When I came,

finally,

to that impossible turn,

I rose on pointe,

whipped my leg,

spun.

One time.

Whip.

Two times.

Whip.

Three!

Still dancing, but triumphant,

I looked for my teacher

where she stood,

behind the curtain,

stage right.

I expected approval,

of course.

I expected joy.

I even expected justification.

See!  I told you!

What I saw …

her body slumped 

with relief,

pure and utter

relief.

I bowed and exited stage left,

applause muffled

by my sudden

and certain

knowledge.

She didn’t believe

I could do it.

Not really!

And yet …

she sent me out

alone

onto

that

stage.

Marion, a formal portrait in a ballet dress