My ballet shoes are above the washing machine

Dear Delyara, I trained as a ballerina from age five to twenty-six. Now I work in a factory that makes plastic parts for refrigerators. My old ballet shoes are stored above the washing machine because there is nowhere else in our apartment to keep them. The ribbons have yellowed. One shoe still has dried blood inside the toe. My daughter found them yesterday. She asked whether I used to dance. I said, “A little.” That lie hurt. I did not dance a little. I built my whole childhood around pain, mirrors, music, hunger, and the belief that one day my body would become something extraordinary. Then I injured my hip. The company replaced me within a month. There was no dramatic ending. No final performance. Just a phone call and silence. At work, the machines stamp the same shape every seven seconds. Sometimes I count the rhythm and imagine a piano. My daughter asked me to show her a dance. I said my back hurt. The truth is, I’m afraid my body will remember before I’m ready to know what I lost.