Home

When she was eight, she took ballet lessons because her mother said a woman who could dance was a gift from God. She remembered the wooden barre and mirrors where the class watched themselves practice, pretending to be parasols, their eyes already hooded with the criticism of others. She recalled the grind of resin against leather soles and the slender black rod against her buttocks because her turnout was not perfect and her arms could not pluck amazement from the sky. She remembered the scratch of pink tulle skirts as they all took turns sitting on each others’ laps backstage and the stifling silence of thick black curtains that hi