For Her

I woke up only to see the pale yellow rays of the early morning sun, spreading its buttery warmth across the awakening city. I propped myself out of bed and burst the windows open, eager to breathe in the misty morning air and the aroma of fresh bread wafting across the street from the bakery.

After pointlessly trying to tame my fiery red hair, I bounced down the stairway, already feeling the beat of the music; the same music would play at my performance that evening. All through breakfast, I repeated in my head the steps that I would have to do on the stage. As I walked down the misty street absentmindedly to the studio, my instructor’s words rambled on in my head. “We have our faith in you, Grace. Dance like your mother, for your mother,” she had said. Tears stung and leaked out my eyes, but I was too lost in thought to care.

I was determined to keep a level head, so I wiped the tears away with a sweep of my fuzzy pink sweater. I entered through the back door of the tiny dance studio that had been the story of my life for twelve years, because I was trying to avoid Gwen, my instructor, who would surely preach about my mother and her talent. But I had cried enough the night before when I visited her grave. I had sat there for hours, thinking about the very person that had been neatly arranged under a mound of dirt four years ago.

As I entered into the common room, I saw the other dancers fixing their makeup or their hair. Julie, my hired makeup artist, ushered me into a chair in front of a mirror. My eyes locked with the girl in the mirror, her eyes the same pale blue as my mother’s. I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself, trying to think about the coming recital.

I didn’t even notice Gwen, holding up a lemon yellow dress and thrusting it at me. Dazed, I smiled weakly and splashed my face with cold water, not caring if the makeup ran down my face. I could hear the show was starting, and Gwen calling my name, but I was all too stubborn to care. I wiped my face with a paper towel and slipped into the dress that she had handed me moments before. Then once again, I looked into the mirror, at the girl with my mother’s eyes. “For you,” I whispered, before running out onto the stage.

“Just like we practiced,” I tried to say to myself, but my legs didn’t obey. The image of my own tearstained face and the old frayed picture of my mother were too much for me. I could feel my own heartbeat locking in with the beat of the music, perfectly synchronized so that they were one and the same.

I felt the stares of Gwen and the other on my back, and when I had to turn towards them, I made sure not to make eye contact. Today was my mother’s day, and nothing could change that. As I finished in time with the end of the song, and the curtains closed in front of me, I could hear the thundering applause of the audience, not knowing that I hadn’t done it right.

“I’ve done it right,” I managed to say to Gwen, before I ran. I ran until I could run no more, until I collapsed. But I was proud of myself, in spite of the tears streaming down my face. I had done it right.