The Wooden Ballerina

Katia dug her small hand into her coat pocket, feeling for the wooden figurine. It sat there-- reliable and firm in her grasp. She squeezed it tight, and felt the sharp cut of its skirt dig into her palm.

She squeezed it tighter.

The wooden ballerina had belonged to her mother, once. Its leotard and frilled skirt were carved intricately, and painted a dusty pink. It was delicate in its form, yet strong and unrelenting in material. Katia’s mother had given it to her when she turned seven this May, and the little girl was seldom seen without it.

Today, Katia decided, was an important day to bring the wooden ballerina along with her. She had plucked it from her dresser with a sense of purpose, and placed it gently into the left pocket of her blue pea coat before her father ushered her out of her bedroom, and into the car. Throughout the short drive, Katia was certain she’d checked her pocket for the ballerina ten times, only to find it still there, its white face turned toward her. She rubbed her thumb along the ridges of its skirt.

The church was filled with people. None of them smiled, and they all deemed it necessary to put a hand on Katia’s shoulder, their eyes red-rimmed and lips pulled into a sad frown. The air smelled like rain and strangers. Katia’s father removed her knitted hat, and put a warm hand gently on her back. He ushered her forward.

“Come on. Let’s go see mom.”

The muggy light of the rainy day leaked in through stained glass windows. It shone on her mother-- bathed her in geometric shapes of yellows, blues, greens, purples, and made her capture the attention of all who passed by. Katia’s father guided her by her shoulder, and his hand shook where it held her. She could feel tremors quake from his bent wrist to his stiff fingertips. It made him grip her tighter.

What she saw was a box made of wood. No ballerinas were carved into this structure. There was, however, a frill that ran along the side-- ridges that were smooth as Katia ran her fingers over them. The pattern resembled her favorite tutu: the one with sparkling sequins that reflected stage lights when she performed. Her mother always went to every performance. She liked to sit in the front row, with a smile in her deep set brown eyes, her slender dancer’s legs crossed, and hands folded daintily in her lap.

“You can say goodbye, if you’d like,” Katia’s father spoke, and his hand was tighter on her shoulder, now. His voice was a like a fog- there, but not quite.

Katia peeked at her mother. Her eyes were closed. She was as white as the paint on the face of the wooden ballerina. A smile seemed to play at her lips. She was sleeping-- would be for a long time, and she wasn’t going to come back. That’s what Katia’s father had told her.

Katia’s hand went into her pocket, and found the ballerina. She took it out, and stood on the tips of her toes so she could reach, properly. Then she placed the ballerina by her mother’s head. They looked one in the same- delicate, yet strong. Both absolutely still, and beautifully tranquil.

And no longer with Katia.

She took her father’s hand from her shoulder, held it tight to stop his quivers. Tears were gathered in his eyes-- reflected the light, and left trails where they fell lazily down his cheeks. She gave his hand a squeeze, and he sniffed before leading her away.

Katia dug her small hand into her coat pocket, feeling for the wooden figurine. But her pocket was empty, and her fingernails dug into lint.