Ballet Slippers

We danced.

I can’t remember when or where or why.

But we danced.

And I smiled.

We dance again now, to a song I can’t make out, in a room lit only by flickering candles. I don't question it; instead, I let my emotions take me away. Though, it only takes a few moments before I notice grass sprouting from the tiled floor, walls crumbling around me, and the flickering candles withering away, only to be replaced by the warm glow of the sun. I look down, watching my suit transform into the uniform of a soldier.

Confused, I realize that I'm back on the battlefield. I don’t dare to glance at the faces around me, but I know that they show at least a little more dignity than mine. I don’t need a mirror to see how afraid I look, how afraid I am. What am I trying to prove?

Guns fire wildly, my own trembling in my hands. When I fire this gun, who will I be? A murderer? A murderer of a man who has a family waiting for him back home? I can’t do that.

Everything flashes before my eyes in an instant: Richard, my family, Ruth dancing with me, the bullets, the soldiers, the chaos. Wanting to erase it all, I close my eyelids, the way I do every night before I go to sleep. And then I open them.

Dead. That’s what they are. Dead. But I’m still standing. I look down at the men, trying to get a look at their faces. The battle is done. But as I scan the dead bodies, I realize, these aren’t soldiers.

These are the people I love: my family, Richard, Ruth.

They’re all gone, but I’m still here.

~~~~~

My eyes open slowly, letting the dream wash away. For a few moments I look at the ceiling blankly until I hear a knock at my door. I grunt lifelessly. “James, you up? Forgot to wake you earlier! You have visitors.” The voice is soft and familiar. But instead of leaving the room, the lady walks in and helps me up, helps me into my wheelchair, and then motions towards the door.

I watch as familiar and unfamiliar faces flood my vision. Too many people. For a moment, I just want them to go away, but then I wonder if they came because they knew my end was coming fast.

I know I’m dying. No one has to tell me that.

“Hey, Dad,” I try to smile as I recognize my son’s voice, but I don’t look over at him. Instead, my eyes are fixed on something else. Someone else.

“Ruth,” I whisper. The short-cropped blond hair sets me off.

“No, no,” my son says quickly. “That’s my granddaughter. That’s Kelsey.” I have a great-grandchild?

“Where’s Ruth?” I ask slowly.

“Dad, maybe you should rest a bit”—

“Where’s Ruth?” I repeat.

“Dad. Mom--I mean, Ruth’s gone. She’s been gone.” I turn my head to look at my son. I feel like my head weighs a hundred pounds by itself. Oh, yes, of course. Ruth is gone. They're all gone. How can my memory fail me like this? Why am I slipping into death so easily?

But most importantly, why had everyone else slipped sooner?

Why am I the last one?

I look back at the little girl named Kelsey as she tugs on her mother’s sleeve. “Mommy, I thought you were taking me to ballet!” I glance at the tutu around her waist and the slippers in her hands. If I could manage enough energy and enough self-control, I would smile. But I don’t.

“Ssh, honey. After we visit your great-grandpa,” her mother responds quietly. My thoughts skip to Ruth, then to war, then back to Ruth. I think of us dancing, dancing, dancing. That’s all I can remember. Her blue eyes, her blond hair, and the light touch of her hand on my shoulder as we danced the night away.

As we danced our past, our worries, and our fear…

away.

Why can't I remember anything else?

“But I want to dance, Mommy!” Kelsey stammers.

“I do too,” I whisper. A smile creeps across my face like the flicker of a candle before it vanishes.