My mother was the most beautiful ballerina you ever saw. As a child, she would walk around, right on her tippy toes – graceful, elegant, captivating. As an adult, she remained just the same. ‘Oh mummy, how I would love to dance like you,” I would cry, twirling around the room.
“Oh my dear, aren’t you the sweetest! You should know by now that talent like mine cannot be bought, taught, or learnt. It is a gift,” she replied, smearing her crimson red lipstick around her pursed lips. At that moment, I noticed that her top lip was much thinner than her bottom.
Still I loved her, foolishly and unconditionally. Mother called me petite ombre: little shadow. But I was no shadow, I could not replicate any of what she did with any flair or finesse. My mother began to tire of my undying devotion and adoration, “Ma petite,” she would say, “why don’t you play outside? Leave me to myself please, for once.”
“But I love you so, I love to watch you dance and one day I will be just like you.”
And, at this precise moment she snapped, “You will never be like me! Do you understand? Never – not even the best teacher in the whole world or a new set of feet will help you.”
So I sat. And I cried. But I could not shake the love for my mother. I stood in front of the mirror and lifted myself up onto my tippy toes as I had seen her do countless times before. I felt the strain of my body weight on my ankles and heard my bones click together. I was determined and I would not rest.
Yet each man kills the thing he loves. Me? I used a hammer. Did I steal my idea from Misery? Yes. Would I do it again? In a heartbeat. And I realised, I was looking at the situation from entirely the wrong perspective. I could not be like her, not even with the best teacher or a new set of feet; but with a new set of feet, she could be just like me.
“Oh my dear, aren’t you the sweetest! You should know by now that talent like mine cannot be bought, taught, or learnt. It is a gift,” she replied, smearing her crimson red lipstick around her pursed lips. At that moment, I noticed that her top lip was much thinner than her bottom.
Still I loved her, foolishly and unconditionally. Mother called me petite ombre: little shadow. But I was no shadow, I could not replicate any of what she did with any flair or finesse. My mother began to tire of my undying devotion and adoration, “Ma petite,” she would say, “why don’t you play outside? Leave me to myself please, for once.”
“But I love you so, I love to watch you dance and one day I will be just like you.”
And, at this precise moment she snapped, “You will never be like me! Do you understand? Never – not even the best teacher in the whole world or a new set of feet will help you.”
So I sat. And I cried. But I could not shake the love for my mother. I stood in front of the mirror and lifted myself up onto my tippy toes as I had seen her do countless times before. I felt the strain of my body weight on my ankles and heard my bones click together. I was determined and I would not rest.
Yet each man kills the thing he loves. Me? I used a hammer. Did I steal my idea from Misery? Yes. Would I do it again? In a heartbeat. And I realised, I was looking at the situation from entirely the wrong perspective. I could not be like her, not even with the best teacher or a new set of feet; but with a new set of feet, she could be just like me.
This was beautifully done, I could literally envisage your hands dancing over the keyboard for this piece of terpsichorean wordplay.
ReplyDeleteAlso; Black Swan.