The burden of uncertainty, of pain, and of boredom—'tis what struck me most and my own virtues.
I grew up in a big house with big glass windows that were bigger than the doors but not as that of the walls where it stood. Outside, you can look at the wide garden full of lilies and tiger orchids that my mom used to tend. Now, I can only look at it once in a while every time I get here. I come here twice a month just to look at it to relieve me from the stress at school. But sometimes, it turns out to be a lot messier here than at school.
I once called this house "home". My mom, who used to tend the flowers in the garden, was the light, the well of joy in this house. She was a strong, clever woman who would take care of me as much as those flowers. And she told me, I was like those flowers—beautiful but vulnerable. She would always tell me stories when I was already tucked in bed. But not like the fairy tales where a girl would meet his prince charming. Instead, she'd tell me stories of me—how I was and how I might be.
It was fifteen years ago since I last called this place home. It was after the time my mom took me to an Opera House where we watched a play that had no dialogues but just plain and elegant music—the ones that don't have lyrics but tells you how happy that song is or how sad and intensely mad it was. After that, I told my mom I would want to be like those girls wearing pink tutus and lacy shoes. So she enrolled me in a ballet class that summer. She would always bring me there and get back before the class ends.
On the first day, we were paired in the class—a sort of way for our teacher to get to know the other kids in the class. My partner was Jake. We actually did not know each other's names until before the end of the class when my mom asked me who he is. We ended up asking his name. My mom invited him and his nanny to our home for dinner sometime. They came and so he came often and we played in the garden with mom. He had become my friend and partner since then. We would wait for each other outside the ballet school, eat together, and let dancing become our play. It was the happiest moment in my life, especially when we were chosen as the lead actress and actor for the recital. It was an early answer for a dream of a girl. I worked hard for it. I got bruises and some slight injuries and body pains but I loved what I am doing. And for the first time, I envisioned myself on the stage with my mom at the front seat of the audience clapping and smiling at me.
The night for the recital came. Everything was fine backstage with Jake and Miss Belle, our teacher-director. I got out of the stage as the music started. I looked at the audience but I saw darkness. I only heard applauses. Then, the music alone. We started dancing just the way we have been taught and how we practiced. It all went smoothly and throughout the play, I was thinking of the Opera House and my mom beside me. The play ended well with only slight mistakes. Jake went to his parents for a hug of congratulations. One by one, my classmates had all been with their families. But mom—she was not there. Not even her shadow. Tears almost blurred my eyes when Jake tapped me and told me that we are going to wait for her. Hours passed but not even a creaking of the theatre's door signaled her coming. Miss Belle, Jake, and his mom and dad, and the guard of the building are all that were left in the once lively place.
Then, mom's car stopped by the gate of the theatre. I was so happy that I ran as fast as I could. I thought it was my mom that was standing beside the car, but as I went closer, it was my aunt Jessie —the only sister of my mom. She told me to get inside the car. It was the first time I did not ride shotgun just because I was not at ease if it was not a mom who was driving. We bade goodbye with gratitude to those people. While driving, my aunt seemed to be worried about something. I can see it from the reflection of her face in the front mirror. I wanted to ask her about my mom but I did not know what to say. I was upset and sad about mom's absence in my very first performance. We arrived home but only the maids are there and my aunt's husband, uncle Martin. Dad came home with a basket of flowers which he gave to me with his usual cold and apathetic greeting. It was mom's gift to me. It was made of the flowers she had in her garden. There was a card with a note that says, "Work for your dreams. Love, Mom". Since that night, I have not seen my mom. Nor my dad and my aunt Jess would tell me where she was. My dad told me not to ask anything about her or I would end up on the street ran after by mad dogs. I am still waiting for her until now. If only she would come back, I would tell her how I became a great ballerina, how I found a friend who had always been there for me, and how I was able to survive everything with only a vision of her in my memories and in my dreams. I worked for my dreams real hard. I worked for finding her. And I know, as she wrote in that card a decade ago, my efforts and aspirations will not fail me.
