Dancing Shoes
Date: 14th
Mar, 2023, Tue
Writing Prompt: Dancing Shoes
***
The attic smells
of damp, and nostalgia. There’s a window on the far end, but the sunlight is mostly
obstructed by an old wardrobe that looks quite apologetic, its doors bent, and
its hinges exposed. So, Lynn turns on the light, the brightness revealing just
how much of a mess it is, and gingerly makes her way through the minefield of
boxes, tables, and knick-knacks.
Lynn knew her
grandmother, whom she called Gran, pretty well, and knowing her, she’d have
chucked all the things that were oldest the furthest in, and then just slowly
piled on the rest as they came. Her Gran wasn’t the most organized person,
obviously, but she has to admit, it is a legit method of organization.
It at least gives her an idea where to first look for what she’s searching for.
She pushes some
stacked chairs aside, and after a moment’s hesitation, hops over a large wooden
chest, one that looks like a pirate’s, like it could possibly hold treasure.
Gran had moved
into the house sometime in the early 50s, after marrying her Grandpa. And for
such a house, it was a pretty big deal then, in the 50s. Grandpa was about 10
years older than Gran, and already had a pretty established business, transporting
goods. But it also meant that he had to travel a lot, and so Gran was left to
her own devices most of the time.
Lynn knew her Gran
to be a really industrious woman. While Grandpa was away, she had taken care of
the house, taken up some teaching jobs, and raised seven kids. And even after
Grandpa died, she had continued on, strong and unwavering.
Lynn reaches a
section of the attic, right in the corner on the other side, that she feels is a
good place to start. She randomly picks one of the medium-sized boxes, and blows
away the dust, causing her to cough quite forcefully. She wipes away the resulting
tears, and opens the lid, quickly sifts through the items. Random bakeware. Doesn’t
seem likely it’s here.
Her Gran did
love to cook though. Lynn remembers spending quite a few holidays baking in her
Gran’s kitchen downstairs. From when she was a little girl, all the way till
before she left for university. They’d started off with simple cookies, and
eventually progressed to complicated ones like macarons, and souffles.
Well, looking
back, maybe it was the eating, and the time spent laughing together they’d
enjoyed, more than the baking.
But they hadn’t
done that in a while though, especially since she’d started working. Maybe the
last time they’d baked something together was during her last semester break. There
was always just so much to do, so little time. And there were new friends, old
friends, even several boyfriends that had demanded her attention. But now, the
regret is bitter in her mouth.
Lynn pries open
another box, this time filled with plastic spoons and forks. An entire box full
of disposable utensils? Why, Gran? she chortles. Such a hoarder. She closes
it, not even bothering to look further, assuming what she’s searching for can’t
possibly be here.
On the top of a
chest of drawers, she spies a hard tiffany-blue cardboard box, tied with a dark
blue satin ribbon, and she instinctively knew—she’s found it.
She takes it
down with her as she settles on the cold parquet floor, and places it carefully
in her lap. She takes her time to remove the ribbon, and when she finally lifts
the lid of the box, she gasps.
“Lynnie,” her
Gran had used to call her. “Yeah, Gran?”
“You have
to do it, you know? You just have to.”
“I want to, I
do. But… It’s not so simple.”
“Is it something
you want? You love?”
Lynn was silent,
her eyes downcast. She nodded her head.
“Then it is that
simple.”
“But… What about
Mum and Dad? They’re not going to be happy about it. Maybe I should just take
up Accounting, like what they want.”
Gran took Lynn’s
hand, kissed it, and rubbed her thumbs over the back of it slowly, in circles.
Quietly, she said, “No.”
“No?”
“I won’t let
you.”
Lynn smiles as
she remembers this. Her Gran had been true to her word. She hadn’t let her.
She looks down
at the exquisite ballet shoes, nestled in soft white chiffon paper, its color faded—once
pink, now almost nude. She traces the sides of the wings down to the pleats and
platform with her finger, flips it over to touch the worn-out soles, and twirls
the ankle ribbons around her hands.
She imagines her
Gran, as she has seen in black-and-white photos, dancing, her hair up in a
tight bun, her feet en pointe, her body a graceful swan.
She sees Gran’s tear-streamed
face, filled with utter joy and pride, as she sat in the front row of the first
sold-out production of her very own dance academy, after years of struggling.
“You’re a
dancer, like me. You have to dance.” Gran had winked, then kissed her
cheek. “You can’t do anything else.”
Writing Prompt: Dancing Shoes
Lynn carefully sets the precious ballet shoes back in the chiffon paper, and tucks the ribbons in neatly before closing the box.
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