In the Face of Love

One would not know, to look at me, my years spent at the ballet barre - tights sticking to me in summer, cold fingers in winter. And the aching to be better, to be seen, to be given a correction from my teacher. She was the goddess of all dance and knowledge, the stern angel of technique and artistry. She made me cry, yet I loved her. She made me hate myself and hate ballet and its impossible standards. If I had been perfect, self-loathing would not have existed in that sweat-wringing studio; the click of her cane would not have conjured dread. I yearned to be beautiful- in her eyes and in my own, but she always wanted something unattainable. Now, decades later, if by chance I hear that music, I inhale with anticipation, dancing in my mind - weightless and lovely, the movements forever ingrained in me. Perhaps I do a port de bras if no one is watching. But I'm sure she is looking down and frowning, hoping I will extend my arms a little more. The strange thing is, I know she loved me. She just wanted something from me that I didn't think I had.