BALLERINAS & SUPERHEROES

The photograph is worn, tattered at the edges and slightly yellowed with age. Fine creases criss-cross horizontally and diagonally the length of it from the cheap paper it is printed on and from being stored in too many careless pockets, purses and briefcases.

I smooth it on my lap, welcoming the fond memories that flood my mind.

Smiling slightly, I gaze at the two people in the photograph. They smile back.

A young, slightly dark-skinned woman was poised casually on a heavily grafittied picnic table that sat in front of a large, dark green cedar hedge. Her long, beautiful dark brown hair cascaded across her shoulders and down her back in voluminous waves and her dark brown eyes sparkled and danced with happiness.

Beside her sat a little girl, with lighter coloured skin and hair done up in a tight French twist.

Me.

I was about four or five, and wore a pink leotard and tutu, two blurry initials embroidered on the front. A tiny tiara glittered in my shiny brown hair. I was laughing and in one hand held a pair of scruffy, moth-eaten ballet slippers and in the other a small trophy, glistening in the sunlight, proudly held high above my head.

I let the warm memories wash over me for a moment; memories of the wonderful times we'd had; few and far between but precious beyond measure.

And no matter how much I tell myself what she did was inexcusable and unforgivable, I miss those times and long to have them back.

Scenes from my childhood flash through my mind like bolts of lightning, frightening in their clarity and brilliance and in their fleeting, ephemeral passing.

A caring face hovering inches from my own as I lay, battered and scraped, on the side of the road, my rusted, purple bicycle lying twisted beside me.

A soft, familiar voice reminding me that I am not alone as I toss and turn in the throes of a terrifying nightmare.

A pretty soprano singing once-well-known songs as we stood in the second-to-last pew of a small church near the East Manhattan Harbour.

Smooth and gentle fingers that wiped innumerable tears.

Tinkling laughter that seemed to brighten the windowless basement apartment.

Steady hands that patched and sewed and repaired my beloved ballet slippers and leotard despite pricked thumbs and broken needles.

She was my superhero. My Wonder Woman. My Super Mom.

I laugh bitterly as I remember my naiveté as a child, when I thought she would be there forever.

Healing scrapes and bruises.

Rescuing me from the clutches of the nightmares that plagued me during the winter, when the wind howled and the freezing rain pelted the rickety glass window panes.

Mending, time and time again, the thin, worn out leotard that she had bought for fifty cents, a Salvation Army clearance sale.

A tear slips down my face as I mourn my superhero.

Superheroes come and go but are never forgotten.

But even Superman left Metropolis.

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I can't help but smile as I pull the leotard, in all its tattered glory, from the cardboard box.

My grin broadens as my gaze lingers on the little pink patches sewn over both knees--several times--and I marvel at the sheer smallness of it.

As a child I was never tall or even very thin. And I certainly wasn't graceful. I chuckle as I remember my mother's struggles to shove my round little body into the leotard and slippers long after I'd outgrown them.

Underneath the leotard lay a pair of ballet slippers, in even worse shape than the leotard itself. I pull the strings of the shoes free from the meshed tutu lying beside them and hold them up, letting them dangle in front of me, trying to imagine myself as a child small enough to wear them.

I imagine myself dancing gracefully, on a stage dimly lit with glittering blue lights. I imagine leaping and twirling and completing perfect pirouettes without a thought.

I imagine the applause of the single audience member, sitting front and centre.

My mother.

I am startled out of my thoughts by an impatient little hand tugging at my sleeve.

My eyes focus on Starr, standing in front of me and fingering the battered pink leotard with wonder.

"Is this yours?" she asks, looking at me with wide eyes.

I nod. "I used to dance when I was your age," I reply.

"You mean, you were a ballerina?"

I laugh. "I tried to be one," I say, "But I wasn't very good at it."

"Can I try it on?" she begs.

I hesitate, but gazing deeply into Starr's large hazel eyes I see, reflected there, a little girl from long ago. A little girl whose superhero enrolled her in ballet lessons despite the outrageous fees paid for with money she didn't have. A superhero who sang and sewed and healed and laughed and loved.

I hand it to her. She pulls it on without a problem, the perfect size, tracing with a reverent finger the initials "T.D." stitched in white thread on the front.

I smile wistfully as I watch her twirl about the penthouse, tears trembling on my lashes and about to spill.

"No, no," I hear myself say, "This is how you do it."

And for the next half-hour, I show Starr what few skills I learned from my lessons, sharing with her stories of my brief days as my mother's one and only Prima Ballerina.

I bite my lip as I reluctantly pull the photograph from the pocket of my blazer and place it into her little hands.

The picture of a ballerina and a superhero.

She stares at it a moment. "This is you?" she finally asks.

"Yep," I say softly. "That's me, when I was your age."

"You won a trophy?"

I pause, about to tell her that all the little girls in my class got one simply for enrolling.

"Yes," I reply, "I sure did."

"Tee?" Starr ventures, tilting her head shyly.

"Yes?"

"Do you think you could give me more lessons tomorrow?"

My mind flashes once more to the little girl in the pink leotard whose superhero had promised never to leave but had let her down.

My gaze turns to the hopeful little girl in the pink leotard in front of me.

"You bet, kiddo," I say at last.

Starr's face lights up like a megawatt bulb and she throws her arms around me. "I'll practice," she promises, at once beginning to twirl around the penthouse, exhibiting moves that had taken her only a half hour to master.

I smile as I realize something.

I'm Starr's superhero.

And not because I was a dancer and not because I got a trophy. But because I sing and sew and heal and laugh and love.

I'm her superhero.

But I won't let her down.

....