Cue to the Last Dance

Your cue!

She heard the assistant director's voice. Slowly, carefully, she strapped on her shoes. With a few more seconds left, she chose to be quiet. Looking around, she couldn't help remembering the very first time she came onto that stage, the nervousness, the overwhelming organized chaos of that backstage.

She was five when she told her mother she wanted to dance. Her parents were not at all enthusiastic, mainly because they thought dancing would disrupt her future. But she was persistent. The first time she danced, her parents were there. They were way too proud after that, telling everybody they knew of how graceful she moved. She could care less. She was dancing, and that's all that mattered.

On and on, she went. Places, she traveled. People, she took by awe. And fame, she caught.

Until that day someone made a run against the traffic signal. She was about to cross the street then, happy because she got another invitation to a show abroad. Then came the red car, skidding tires and all.

The next thing she knew, everything was white. Can she go? She heard her father ask someone. I'm afraid not, that someone responded. She was numb. What were they talking about?

It's time! Again, the assistant director.

Eight months ago, someone landed in a hospital for a cut on his forehead. He hit his head when his car bumped into the roadside post. When he came into the hospital, someone else was with him. He had hit that person, too, who was innocently and happily about to cross the street. He had hit that person's legs.


And today, she faces every one of you. Today, I bid goodbye my ballet shoes. I would roll my chair out of this stage, dejected and anguished. But I would forever cherish every seat you all occupied, every eye you had on my every prance. Thank you. For all the years you clapped for me.


Not able to bear the tears and sobs slowly coming, she wheeled away. She had said her piece.

Her last dance.


Photo by: Spanish Moss