One by one we step forward, sweeping our legs behind us into an arabesque with effortless control before our arms float up, the drapes creating a ghostly wing-like effect. Veronique’s pointe shoe lifts up to my chest as she enters the stage. That’s my cue. I join the dancers ahead of me, hazy-blue light turning me into a shade descending from the afterlife. All of us move down the sloping entrance until twenty-four ghosts haunt the stage with our ethereal elegance.
With no bright spotlight to dance under, it’s hard to make out the audience. They are nearly a sea of black. Nearly. I bourrée, arms floating above me, and catch the blue-hued faces of Lark and Delilah smiling up from the front row. I stifle my smile, focusing on the movement and my fellow dancers within my peripheral vision. This piece is all about lines, grace, and execution as one captivating unit. When we break off, heading to the side of the stage, the three principals come out to the center, and I notice a flicker of movement.
It can’t be…
My heart beats wildly in my chest and tears threaten to spill from my eyes and ruin my makeup, but the dance keeps me moving, second nature from rehearsing it so many times. I could do this piece in my sleep. But right now, I’m doing it in front of the woman who supported and sacrificed so much for me to be on this stage.
My mom.
She looks just as she did in life, but now her skin gives off a golden halo, the only light source coming from within the audience.Her hair has burnished streaks through its previously brown tresses, falling around her shoulders and looking wind swept.
The dance continues and I don’t miss a beat. The smile on my mom’s face widens with each passing phrase of music, warming me more than any spotlight could.
She’s here.
I’m bolstered through the rest of my performance, and before I know it, it’s intermission. I don’t even want to exit the stage, worried that she’ll disappear like a leaf on the wind, but when I turn to the wings, she’s there, waiting for me. Following her out into the hallway, I look around to make sure no one else is there.
We have fifteen minutes of intermission and I need to get changed into my costume for Act II, but I won’t miss the chance to see her. I pull her into a long hug. She smells of sweet apples and cinnamon, and on her neck is a single imprint in the shape of a maple leaf.
“You’re a harbinger.”
“I am.”
“How?” I rasp. “I thought they were only mortals who didn’t live fulfilled lives.”
We pull apart and my mom clears her throat. “I fought the pull beyond the veil. Not when I couldn’t be certain you’d be okay.”
“I’m not.” I don’t know if I’ll ever be.
“You will be.” The corner of her lip turns up in a smirk. “A mother knows these things.”
“So you’re a harbinger because of me?”
Her lips pull into a line, as if weighing the question herself. “That’s part of it…though I’m sure there’s more to it than that.” She takes my hands in hers, thumbing over my skin. Her touch is like the autumn breeze, delicate and comforting.
“They don’t tell us why. Maybe we are meant to learn that on our own. But while you and your dreams were my priority, I stopped dreaming for myself.” There’s no resentment in her words, only honesty.
What had my mom wanted out of life? Did she ever wish to fall in love again after my father left? Were there goals she never realized? It’s funny how this is the first time I’m wonderingabout it, looking at my mother and seeing her as a person with her own wants and needs.
She swallows thickly. “Whatever the reason, I’m grateful for this chance to dream after death… Who knows, maybe I’ll be blessed with a mate of my very own?”
She brushes my cheek and pulls me in for another hug.
“You were incredible tonight, sugarplum. I’m so proud of you,” she whispers against my ear. I can’t fight the tears, not when hearing her voice for the first time since she was alive. Not when I’ve spent months savoring her voicemail over and over.
“I miss you so much, Mom.” My voice shakes, and she swipes away the tears with a gust of autumn wind.
“I miss you too. More than you’ll ever know.”
It’s really her. Changed but still the woman who helped me try on my first pair of pointe shoes, took me toSwan Lake, told me time and time again that everything would be okay—until she couldn’t.
Until things weren’t okay anymore.
I push away the image of the last time I saw her. A horrific shell of who she was. Even though she’s transformed, her harbinger form still somehow captures the comforting light she was for me in life. I’d much rather think of her this way. Staring at me with pride and joy and all the love I could ever wish for.
I guess some loves transcend life—taking us far beyond mortality.
“How? Have you been here all fall? How am I only seeing you now?”
