First dance

The silver platter was adorned with fruits, money and jasmine flowers. The little girl rose to her feet while holding the platter when her dance teacher approached her.

           “Put down the platter first and get her blessings.” Her father instructed kindly.

She placed the platter back on to the floor. Then she straightened her long skirt and knelt down to touch her dance teacher’s feet. The other children and their parents watched as Myra enacted the Hindu custom of receiving a blessing from a guru. Myra looked up and her teacher smiled at her. She quickly squat down and picked up the platter.

           “This is for you teacher.” Myra handed her gift of apples, oranges, grapes, money and the fragrant flowers.

           “Thank you, I’ll see you Saturday for your first class.” The teacher smiled at Myra again, this time with her eyes.

The rest of the evening consisted of parents speaking to one another and Myra standing close to her father. There were a few other girls around her age. They all sat quietly eating sweet rice and other festive Hindu treats. The gathering was the initial step to beginning Bharatanatyam (Indian Classical dance). The purpose of the gathering was to introduce the teacher also known as the guru to the students and their parents. Becoming a Bharatanatyam dancer involved commitment. The lifestyle closely resembles that of a ballet dancer who devotes their time, their bodies and even their minds to the divine art. Myra was excited to start the following Saturday. She was seven years old and full of energy.

           It was only a year and Myra was her dance guru’s favourite student. When she was taught a new step, Myra picked it up right away. So, her guru asked Myra to demonstrate the step in front of the class. Her dance teacher commended Myra’s ability to pick up new steps right away and informed the rest of the class that Myra’s progression is due to her commitment. The other children looked blankly at Myra. And Myra felt a mix of glory and embarrassment. She had called her teacher once to ask what she should practice more of. But right after she hung up, she wondered if she should have called.

           The following Saturday, everyone was seated on the floor for announcements.

           “I am delighted to inform you that we have been asked to perform at a community event. I’ve told the organizers that we will perform two dances. One is a group dance and the other…is a solo.” She looked around the room and the students did not flinch.

           “Now, I have not decided on who will be performing. I will decide after today’s class. You’ve all been doing pretty well, but not well enough. In order to perform, you need to show me that you are committed.”

Myra was uncomfortable. She was nervous because she had to do her best today, but that was not the only reason why she was nervous. Myra was afraid to disappoint her guru and she was scared of the other students not liking her. Though she was only eight years old, Myra learned to ignore those negative feelings and she decided to do her best no matter the outcome.        

           “You may all go get a drink of water.” The dance teacher sat on her chair and waited for the students to come back.

           “I am very pleased with how you all danced today. I would like to include all of you in the two performances, but I cannot. The first dance is a lamp lighting dance and will require six dancers.” Once she finished calling the students’ names. She looked at Myra.

Myra was confused. She couldn’t believe she wasn’t chosen. But her confusion dissipated at her guru’s next words.

           “Myra will be doing the solo. Congratulations Myra.” The dance teacher didn’t smile at her this time. She had a serious expression on her face.

The community event was to happen in a month. Myra came home from school and she ate, did her homework then went straight to her dance teacher’s house. She had rigorous practices that lasted for hours. The last week was of practice; her teacher had a surprise for her.

           “This is what you will be wearing.” She took out a beautiful magenta dance costume and glittering jewelry to match her outfit.

Seeing the costume, Myra was ecstatic. She smiled with excitement. Her teacher told her to try it on and perform with it a couple of times to get used to the costume. Myra rushed to one of the rooms and put on the costume. She walked out feeling like a professional dancer, and definitely as a very happy eight year old. Myra danced and her teacher was very pleased.

           The hall was filled with people. There was food, other dancers and music playing in the background. Every detail was begging for Myra’s attention and soon she couldn’t focus on remembering her steps.

           “I’m a little nervous.” Myra toyed with the frills on her skirt.

           “Don’t be nervous Myra. You’re going to make me very proud.”

The lights grew dim and the announcer called out Myra’s name. Myra couldn’t move. The butterflies in her stomach fluttered uncontrollably.

           “I can’t do it. I don’t remember anything.” Myra looked to the floor avoiding the disappointment on her teacher’s face.

           “Next, we have Myra doing a solo.” The announcer looked to the side of the stage where Myra and her teacher were standing.

Her dance teacher indicated by hand that Myra would like to perform after the next performer. The announcer got the message and smoothly told the audience there’s a slight change of order in performances.

           “This is my first performance as a dance teacher. Are you going to disappoint me? I can’t face the people here and the parents if you don’t perform.” Myra’s teacher, the young, beautiful woman who arrived in Toronto just a year ago and left among everything else dear to her, her dance students in Sri Lanka because of the civil war started to cry.

Seeing the tears fall from her teacher’s big, beautiful eyes, Myra started to cry. She knew she had to do it. She hugged her teacher. Her guru knelt down, and Myra wiped the tears from her eyes.

           “I’ll do it. I’ll make you very proud.”

           “And now ladies and gentlemen, we have Myra to do a beautiful dance for us!”

Myra walked on to the stage and held her pose. As the volunteers drew the curtain, Myra glanced at her teacher. Her guru looked at her with hope and Myra faced the audience ready to perform. 

Love

I said “gimme some” when I was 7

And you looked at me with angry eyes

I said “give me some please” when I was twelve

And you looked at me with curious eyes

I asked “would you please give me some” when I was 22

And you looked at me with appeasing eyes

“I guess I understand what you’re asking for”

I asked “can we share some” when I was 25

And you looked at me with apologetic eyes

“Of course we will, I understand”

I said “I’ll give you some” when I was 27

And you looked at me with grateful eyes

“thank you”

And together we smiled.

Mute lover

a monologue 

You caress my heart and treat it well

as though my breast reads “fragile”

                                                                              

you watch my lips as they form words,

my hands show shapes and sizes

my fingers dance along to lyrics,

just to catch your reaction

I am lost in your caramel brown,

in your heavy hands,

your thick and black

messy hair

you place your opinion

on the coffee table

and the napkins fly in the air

we catch them all, and clean our beautiful mess

after hours of love your actions confirm  

that love needs no words

you silently tighten the threads

that hold together

everything I am. 

Away

The light above me

casts a shadow of relief

in its presence I am comforted,

a peaceful feeling at ease

limbs so tense

un-tighten their grip

I smile at the simple glory

of this unspoken,

delicate,

release

a soft, beautiful pressure

a breeze across my bliss

sings me to sleep as I feel

its finger tips...

across my shoulder, cheeks and breasts

it sweeps away my worries,

my doubts and uneasiness.

Apartment 303

an elegiac poem 

The books you love

are scattered on the floor

like tiles 

you left the window open

and the wind will remind me

of the world outside

our cookies are uneaten;

your meal has turned cold

our room is empty,

my heart is full

your clothes are gone,

my memories are stored

every night in a dream

I see your face

in dim light

while I push through

you step back,

like my life that I

try to rewind

no photograph will do -

your favourite slippers

our furniture

means nothing

compared to your body,

your eyes, and your voice -

a gentle whisper

I hear sometimes. 

The simple things edited

The simple things,

the people, the moments

the mug with the coffee you held in your hands

while you spoke about your day

the taste of chocolate

as it lingers in your mouth,

waiting in the rain

for the bus

listening to the ring before he picks up

you untangle your hair with your comb –

brings back memories of your childhood

making your bed

before you let the sun in

rushing down the stairs

to greet the aroma

of breakfast

Trust

Trust is a bird I’ve locked in a cage

she wants to fly and spread her wings

but I’ve clipped them tight to never lose her again

she cannot escape, or dare to leave

as the mere thought is harsher --

than reality

so please understand that this bird must stay

to accompany my heart and cradle my fear

I see her everyday to know she is there

as my devoted, willing-- prisoner

her captivity is to harness my bleeding wounds

and her presence to silence my hearts’ screams

and though one day, I will let her free,

watch her soar

then come back to me

every step I take to get to that point,

is a mile in length and and some effort at width.

Treehouse

a short short story about a mother and child.

Crista was a beautiful baby. Nothing in the world could keep me away from her. Her subtle tug at my long nightgown always made me smile. The innocent look in her eyes and her soft pink tiny lips that glistened with drool made my husband and I happy. Before we knew it Crista started school, she told us about her day and found new ways to show us she loved us. She made us paintings and often drew herself with my husband, and I holding hands. On one of the days she drew a picture of a tree-house. We thought it was beautiful and decided to build her one when she turned five.

           “I want a la-lad.” Crista whispered into her father’s ear.

           “You want a ladder sweetie?” her father chuckled quietly.

           “Yes!” Crista clutched her hands together and jumped a little.

Philip carried Crista out into the backyard. He lifted her up high and she pretended to fly. I watched from the kitchen and smiled. I couldn’t wait to tell them the good news. Father and daughter played outside for a while and finally marked the spot of where the tree-house was to be built.

           “Mommy! It’s going to be over there!” Crista’s excitement filled the kitchen. She was panting for air after her tenth jump.

           “Are you sure Crista? It’s so far away from Mommy.” I knelt down and moved her bangs away from her beautiful eyes.

Crista slept with us. She’s never had her own bed or her own room. Maybe that was our fault. Philip had advised me of the subtle dangers of too much attachment. I agreed with him and we would immediately begin talking about fixing up the spare bedroom for Crista, but that was as far as we got. We should have given her, her own room.

           I completely forgot about sharing my good news with Philip and Crista. So I prepared to tell them in the morning over breakfast. But before I could utter a word, Philip interrupted my breath.

           “Crista, guess what?” He looked more excited than I was to deliver my news.

Crista put down her glass of orange juice abruptly spilling some of it on the table mat. She looked over to me and I shook my head. I had no idea what Philip was going to say.

           “What Daddy?” She asked with an anxious look and gleeful smile.

           “I’ve bought all the wood and all the supplies we need to start on your tree-house. And Daddy’s two friends from work are going to come help me and mommy put it together.” With those words, Crista jumped up from her seat and grabbed her father and secured her small arms around his neck tightly. I got up and joined them.

           “Ahem, I also have some news.” I said impatiently and possibly with the same excitement expressed by Crista seconds ago.

           “We’re going to have a baby!” Before I could finish my sentence Philip came over and smothered Crista and I with another inescapable hug. I wasn’t sure if Crista understood, so I explained it to her and she was very happy.

           Philips’ friends came over every weekend for a few months. The tree-house was slowly coming together. Crista and I painted the wood with her favourite colours: pink, purple and blue. She drew hearts, smiley faces and even a picture of our family. She had her own play hammer and I trusted her small hands and gentle smacks while I held the real nails in place. It was a slow process, but we intended on taking our time as the experience meant more to us.  We all looked forward to the end result but not nearly as much as we did for the weekends to arrive. On Saturday afternoons I made lemonade, prepared tuna sandwiches, and baked fresh chocolate chip cookies for the team. We would never forget the experience of building the tree-house.     Crista went through phases. Shortly after her tree-house phase she became obsessed with books. Her favourite was “Mother Goose.” I tried to read to her at night, but I was having difficulty during my pregnancy. I was usually asleep before Crista’s bedtime so Philip read to her. Every night, Crista asked where I was and Philip told her that her new baby sister needed me. Crista seemed to understand. She nodded her small head. But after Philip explained, and she nodded her head, Crista asked again why I could not read to her.

           The day finally arrived. I slept very well that night. Our new baby, my darling Lea was a doll. She hardly cried and I was a happy mother of two. The next morning I woke up to an empty bed. It was frightening to feel the sharp pain of a mother’s intuition. My body was heavy and I was still in a lot of pain from labour. I managed to remove the heavy blanket off of me and struggled to walk quickly out of the room and into the kitchen. There I saw the tree-house standing, its pink, purple and blue shades. I felt like I was in a dream where I tried to scream but no sound came out. When I felt myself get dizzy I grabbed on to the table and accidently pressed on Crista’s book. The pages flew open when Philip opened the door to the kitchen. I noticed the bright markings Crista made on one of the nursery rhymes… “And down came baby, cradle and all.” 

Introduction

On a journey that is similar to yours. You'll find a splash of poetry, pictures and prose.