Confession #58

It's been eight years and I still can't go in the old high school auditorium without getting misty-eyed.

All those years of ballet, all those recitals, The Nutcracker every December. So many memories. It's a good thing I'm not allowed backstage during the middle school band concerts, because I know if I found my way back there, I'd surely cry.

I miss dancing. I miss feeling like I was in complete control of my body. I miss having that rhythm in my bones that made it impossible to be still. I miss the bright lights and the music that flowed through the entire building. I miss the fancy costumes and the stage makeup. I miss the excitement of waiting in the wings, hiding behind the curtains while performing all the steps with the dancers on stage because we'd seen it rehearsed so many times that we had their parts memorized along with our own. I miss the thrill of walking—never running!—behind the backdrops on stage, knowing that the scenery was all that separated us from the dancers performing and the audience beyond them. I miss the camaraderie. I miss goofing off in the dressing rooms, doing things we knew we probably shouldn't but which we got away with because there was little supervision. I miss the hand-drawn personalized stars cut from construction paper and taped to the mirrors so everyone would know who had claimed which spot. I miss the surreal way time seemed to stop while we were backstage, like the whole world suddenly revolved only around us. I miss it all.

I saw a girl at my sister's band concert tonight, a member of the sixth grade band, who was smaller than all the others. Her blonde hair was slicked back into a bun. She walked by my family after they left the stage, and I couldn't help but notice how perfect her hair looked. It was the kind of bun that comes from much experience. I have to wonder if she's a dancer too. If she is, I hope it's as magical for her as it always was for me.