Degas' Ballerinas

“Hey Mom! How ya doing? How’s the ankle feeling?” I yell and shut the door behind me. 

“Good sweetie, I’m good,” she yelled back from her bedroom. 

I enter my Mom’s little shotgun house, on the corner of Valmont right off of Magazine. Everything is white and bright when it's late in the day like this: the walls, the rug, the cream couches, the giant glass coffee table. Walking through the living room into the open doorway of the kitchen in the back, I see she tried to wash some dishes. 

“Mom, did something break in here?” I yell, putting my keys and purse down on the counter next to the sink. 

“Ohhh yes!” she yelled back. “I was reaching for the soap on the windowsill and knocked that little glass vase over, if you don’t mind picking that up for me. That’s such a big help, thank you baby.” 

I made sure to press my forefinger and thumb on the smooth sides of glass to avoid the edges as I threw them in the garbage next to me. I tried to wash away the crumbs of glass from the corners of the sink. 

“I was sad about that actually,” she continued. “That was Mawmaw’s little vase that she had on her windowsill. You might be too young to remember.”

I pictured the peach walls and slightly open window with french curtains above the sink at Mawmaw Camille’s little house, before she moved into the nursing home. There was always a little figure of a ballerina next to it, as well as a small wooden plank with the Irish Blessing written on it. 

“I remember. Where did that little ballerina go?” I yell back as I reach into the fridge to get her another water bottle. 

“Oh my goodness! That cute little thing. You know I don’t kno–thank you, baby,” she said as I walked into her bedroom. 

“She got it when you started dancing,” said Mom as she sat up in her bed, ankle elevated. “We went to go see the Degas exhibit when it came here and thought the ballerina looked just like you.” 

I knew the story already, but I just liked hearing it again. 

“Can you fluff the pillow under m–there, yes! Thank you so much,” Mom started. “I’m going to finish this spreadsheet and then take a little nap, so if you want to go now I can just call you later.”

“Mom, I just got here! I’ll just watch TV and then I can start dinner whenever you wake up.” 

“I can make dinner by myself!” she protests, knowing she can’t put weight on her foot for the next six weeks. “But you can do whatever you want.” 

I walk into her living room and fall onto the old couch facing the television. Mom tried to spruce the rickety place with greenery beside the television and couches when she moved in. The more “modern” additions she added just made my great-grandmother’s old furniture look like pieces from a museum exhibit. 

With my cheek against the old, rough couch fabric, I try to fall asleep. The antique air of the Golden Girls-esque time capsule brings me back to myself but much smaller, younger, more helpless, with blonder curls and a wider smile. The way Mawmaw Camille knew me. 

After ballet class, Mersie, Mawmaw Camille’s daughter, used to let me lay face up on her lap. She would pretend to give me a facial and run her long, manicured nails up and down my doll-sized face. I can’t remember when she stopped doing this, but that doesn’t really matter. 

I open my eyes at the moment when the sun reflected off of the glass coffee table, and shut them again. I sat up, so that my feet would just miss the wooden floor. I swing my legs back and forth. It must’ve looked pretty stupid to see a 21-year old adult swinging their legs. 

When I open my eyes again, the mid-afternoon sunlight coming through the windows illuminated all the smudges and dust, lighting the old coffee table up. Though the glass coffee table did the same thing when it lived in Mawmaw’s house, it had never made me feel this grief before. The sunlight was so bright, it nearly broke my heart. A tear escaped my right eye and traveled the length of my cheek. 

The whole room was doused in light, but I felt like there was an infrared spotlight on me. The last time I felt like this was on stage at my last ballet recital. I’d like to say that I saw the faces of my mom and aunt and grandma in the crowd, but the stage lights blinded me. 

After the show, Mawmaw opened her arms to me as I ran into them, pink tutu and all, as she said, “There’s my little ballerina.” 

Winter 2022