I pressed damp shoulder blades
together, stretched my aching arms.
The hardwood floor reflected pale 9:00 sun,
giving the spacious room luminosity.
It reminded me of when I used to slide
across the floor and leap over dusty records
my dance teacher laid out for us,
wisps of hair clinging to my face,
my pink plastic dance bag
with the embroidered ballet slippers
lying in the corner with all the others.
Mom always sat in the doorway with a baby on her lap.

Five years later, I slid on my first toe shoe
as if it were made of glass;
its pale pink satin silky compared
to the rough canvas inside.
I glanced at the door and waited for the brass bell to jingle.
I wished my mom could see me then.