Sharon Lin | forthesonorous

Swiftly

Ten seconds. Teresa could imagine the kernels, each golden pearl sitting amidst the wax-covered interior of the paper bag, awaiting the seconds before they would burst with the fullness of their regal white clouds. She thought about the heat, about how the gradually growing sensation tickled their skins like they did her own.

Buzz! Teresa quickly opened the microwave and reached her hand up to grab at the handle, gingerly removed the scalding hot bag. As she carefully tore the corner and spilled the golden morsels into a colorful plastic bowl, the kernels shook with the sudden intensity of their release. Teresa caught a whiff of the buttery scent that emanated from their presence, suddenly feeling a longing sensation.

Grabbing the bowl, she walked out of the kitchen, fully knowing where she wanted to go, and yet still unable to bring herself to consciously make the decision to travel to the room. As she took brisk steps down the hall, she marveled at her body’s grace. It took almost no thought to move her legs forward, to compel them to action from rest, and to note their final placing in perfect linear motion, sweeping against gravity and back towards the ground.

She had once been a dancer. It seemed like ages ago, but she recalled the colorful dresses, the flowing fans, the props, and the lights always shining too bright on her face, far too hot for her skin. She could recall the long hours of practice, bruises across her limbs, and the harsh voices reminding her of why she wasn’t good enough or why she couldn’t look like the other girls in her troupe. It was a difficult memory to conjure, but it certainly did seem magical at the time, bringing about a sense of understanding about her surrounding and the movements of her body.

Along the way, she picked up her phone and noticed a notification appear on the screen. Ignoring the message, she continued along to the living room. Her television was off, so she figured it was as good a time as any to watch some old tapes her parents had kept around the house. She set the bowl of popcorn down on the side of the couch and riffled through the DVDs along the stack—all of them labeled in the same messy script her father had—and wondered what they meant. Most of them were written in a language she could not recognize, but she figured they had to be listed by age if not chronologically.

Selecting one that seemed appropriate for the moment, Teresa sat herself down on the velvet green couch in the middle of her living room and placed her popcorn on top of her lap, pressing on the remote to start the tape. It flashed with the blurred screen of the production company before switching to the colorful scenery of the first movement of the performance. The corner of her mouth turned up in a small smile, and she brought her legs up onto the couch as the dancers began to stream out to the melody of the violas.

The sudden nostalgia was almost surprising, but Teresa admittedly had not reflected on this notion for quite some time. It was thoroughly against her intentions to return to the memories of her childhood. Despite how much she had loved the art, the beauty, and the simple majesty of the movement she could perform, dance eroded from a passion into her parent’s desires and dreams. She loathed herself for thinking this way, but each time she thought about her father’s demands, how he constantly forced her to practice for hours simply because she couldn’t pass her adjudication, how they had to pay for lessons when dance would never become a conscious part of her future anyway, how they seemed so intent on manipulating her success, she could only remember the dreadful day when she finally pushed them out of her life.

She didn’t mean to feel the regret, but it came in waves nonetheless, sweeping over her until she couldn’t breathe. Moving into the city so soon after leaving school, determined to make a life for herself and yet uncertain about her future, she had perhaps gone through every possible doubt along the way. Whether it was living on her own, the incredible loneliness and isolation she felt for so long, or even the nights when she wondered where she had made her mistake, she could hardly recall the days of her past without feeling a sudden weight sink within her.

It had been years before she was able to speak to her parents again. She had no idea what their reactions could have been, but perhaps there was no way to understand the situation than to simply accept it—accept the fact that their daughter had failed after all, that she had left home to pursue her dream away from her stifling home only to learn that life wasn’t perfect for everyone, and that she really was nothing more than a failure.

Teresa suddenly shook her head, banishing the thoughts from her mind. At that moment, the notification popped up on her phone once again. She thought about it for a second, about the last time she had called home. Even when she spoke with her parents, she could only remember the terseness of their conversations, the stark silences that would fill the air between breaths as they spoke with one another. As the notification continued to ring, she swiped it away once more, instead reaching her hand into the bowl that she now had nestled between her legs.

She was pleased to find that it had cooled to a more comfortable temperature. The feeling of the popcorn gently chaffing her hand reminded her of the first time she had helped to string popcorn with her father. Even after she called him mere months ago, it had been years since she had seen him. She could hardly remember his smile, let alone the member of standing beside him, his arm around her as she was lifted off the ground to string the family Christmas tree.

On the television screen, the children were now lining up in a circular fashion, curtsying on both sides as they followed one another into the next formation of the movement. Teresa could almost remember where she had been, although the quality of the film prevented her from seeing anything but blurred faces waving their arms on stage. Even so, she chuckled at the memory of the holiday concert, her mind drifting away from the couch and back to the stage.

An hour passed before she peered at her clock, drowsiness overcoming her senses. The music from the television faded away, replaced with the sensations of movement—her limbs dancing in the stillness of the stage, the bright lights overhead. She saw herself floating above a shining stage, a gown adorning her body, her legs reaching out as they began to sweep the air in the movements she remembered so well. As Teresa danced, she heard her parent’s voices surround her. They praised her and she saw herself floating up, higher and higher, but as she did the voices grew harsher and harsher, until she tumbled away and the stage disappeared. The images started to blur together, and Teresa saw only herself, lost in time, a bodiless mind floating above the world.

She wondered whether she would ever be able to return to the world she knew, her mind swirling in the abyss of the darkness that engulfed her. Even so, as she continued along, floating throughout the vast expanse, she felt alone and vulnerable. She saw the faces of the people she knew float along and yet there was nothing she could do but watch as they disappeared behind her. Finally, the faces of her parents appeared, but as she started forward to greet them, they too dissolved into the darkness. A buzzing filled her ears, and as she covered them to block away the noise, the vast darkness disappeared.

Teresa opened her eyes, her mind still hazy from the dream. The buzzing continued, and she momentarily realized that her doorbell had been rung. Without a second thought, she jumped up from the couch and strode towards the door, opening it to see the face of her father staring back at her. Her voice caught in her throat.

“Merry Christmas, Tree!” her father said, almost hesitantly, as he burst through the door with an armful of bags, her mother trailing closely behind. “We didn’t hear from you—we thought you weren’t home for a while.”

“Merry Christmas, Dad,” she answered softly.

Sharon Lin’s writings have appeared in WHITETEETHMAG, Muse Magazine, KidSpirit, Spirituality and Practice, AFA, YES! Magazine, AK! Magazine, and other publications. She currently resides in New York, and is a three-time recipient of the Scholastic Art & Writing Gold Key Award, as well as a NYC Youth Poet Laureate Finalist.