Moving On Anonymous

As I reach into the back of my closet for my go-to tee and gently tug it off its hanger, its hem brushes against a yellow tote bag that hasn’t left its spot on the bottom shelf for months. Without opening or even peering down into it, I can visualize its contents.

This monogrammed tote with its worn canvas interior is my dance bag. I still like to think it has similar mystical powers to the bag Mary Poppins carried, limitless in what it can hold. Inside, is a seemingly endless accumulation of dance shoes of every kind. There’s a single tan jazz shoe in addition to two black ones, reminding me of the gratification that accompanied my first pair of black jazz shoes in lieu of tan ones, a badge of maturity and progress toward being an advanced dancer. The same is true for the black and tan pairs of tap shoes. Next, are two canvas ballet shoes, with holes at each big toe just like the countless blown out pairs of ballet shoes I’ve had before. But the principle culprit of the entanglement? The three pairs of pointe shoes I kept in my bag at any given time, laden with satin ribbon, annoyingly apt to catching in the zipper pocket and fraying.

Once I’m past the chaotic mass of shoes, there’s a black ballet skirt I wore while learning...