The Dancer

Being unable to attend to one activity for more than two minutes at I time, I was surprised when The Dancer held my attention for over an hour.

I came to the ballet studio that day only to please my younger sister Isabelle, a fourteen year-old who was about to complete her rite of passage(ballet graduation). Knowing this was important to her after nine years of practice, I went along that day. My going meant so much to her. 'Why?' I yearned to ask. 'Do you know who I am? A drug addict who doesn't even know who she is.' But I did not allow those poisonous words to escape. I kept them in my heart, where they could only hurt me. Because there is one thing that drugs can't steal from you, and sometimes drugs even make you appreciate it a little more: that is love.

The Dancer was the man who came up to do his presentation directly after my sister. He was tall and long-limbed, and moved gracefully, pehaps like a panther. He began to dance, and I began to watch. Not just see what was in front of me, but everything. My life, my love, my family, my heart, my soul. And yes, my drugs. But this time I saw everything with a little more beauty in it. Each image that floated into my mind was polished and sparkling as if the memories associated with it had been freshly imprinted onto my brain. With each lithe step of The Dancer's, I got a little bit stronger. Each time he moved, arched, or swirled, my heart felt like it was swelling. And then, when he finished, I had a lump in my throat the size of a potato.

From that day onwards, The Dancer was my drug. Each morning I would visit the studio and watch him practise his art. And what I got out of it was so much better than any drug could give me. Because The Dancer could show me everything at its best.