𝐌𝐲 𝐌𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐝𝐲.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐎𝐧𝐞: 𝐍𝐘𝐂𝐁

                A pigeon cooed from a tree above me, the wistful bird flapping it's well-kept wings and chattering to another bird which perched on a nearby twig. I'd taken the moment to tilt my head and peer at the pretty birds. Their feathers were a ray of different colors; straying from whites, blues, purples, and metallic greens. Their beaks were a cute pink, yet held their own unique black splotches. Frankly, I can't understand how people could call pigeons "flying rats" when they really are so majestic.  They were just like any other birds when hungry, and are just as dirty as any other bird.

My eyes followed as one on the pigeons made the first move, picking its wings up and flapping over to the other bird, which watched with its one eye as it's head turned to the side. The pigeon landed next to the other one, fluffing out its colorful feathers and cozying up. With one last chatter, the pigeon closed it's eyes while the other began grooming itself with it's beak buried into it's fluff. I half smiled at the sight. These birds were just as dependent on each other as humans are, and obviously held some care for each other.

The pigeon grooming itself had perked it's head up, and as if it felt me staring, it turned it's head towards me to get a good look at me. It blinked once, chirped, then went back to it's cleaning. I couldn't help but think of how simple a pigeons life was. I wish my life could be as simple as that. But that's awfully selfish to think. Father always told me to be grateful for the life I had, which of course I am. It would just be nice to live as a simple bird, and to do simple things. It's nice to be bored sometimes.

A gush of wind had blown my hair about, causing me to snap out of my day dreaming. My golden locks had been swooshing in every direction, and blocked my view of the lovely pigeons. I quickly reached out and made my best attempt of getting my hair under control by pushing the strands back, but alas the wind had eventually died down. I sighed as I released my hair and wrapped my arms around myself, shivering at the cold. It was February, for jeez sake. I silently cursed how cold New York is. My nose tingled slightly, the cold air nipping at my flushed skin.

I reached into the pocket of my white cardigan, feeling around for the paper I had in there. I triumphantly tugged the paper out between my fingers, looking down at the material. It was a warn out postcard my therapist had given me. On the front it was a picture of a wondrous looking building, square in shape, and rows upon rows of windows. On the back, it read: "NYCB: New York City Ballet". I smiled to myself, running my fingers over the front of the postcard, tracing the building with the pads of my fingertips.

I raised the paper upwards, comparing it to the same building which stood a few feet away from me. Not much has changed. Still squared, the windows reflected the sunlight, making the glass shine wistfully. There placed a very beautiful fountain right in front of the building, water shooting out of the faucets about five feet into the air. People had gathered around the fountain, sitting on the edge of the concrete and mingling. I took one last look at the postcard before shoving it back into my pocket.

My heart filled with joy, and something close to courage. Deep down I knew, no matter what, I have to get into this ballet school. It was my mothers passion before she... passed, and now it's my passion. This had all started when I was seven years old. My mom showed me this old video of her when she was in her late twenties, her dressed in her ballet attire, pirouetting her way through the music. She looked so graceful as she danced to the classical sway of the music in her leotard and light pink tutu. I knew after seeing such a wonderful form of dance, it was my future. Whether my father or brother wanted it to be or not. Mom always told me to do whatever my heart desired, because if it made me happy, everyone else had no say.

I had to blink the tears away. Thinking about my mom always made me pucker up the waterworks. She was a wonderful woman. A wonderful woman who had died right in front of me. My stomach twisted and turned at the horrid memories I shall never unsee. I clenched my tiny fists, taking a slow breath through my nose. I shook my head to rid all of those dreadful thoughts away, and instead focused on the goal in front of me: becoming a student at NYCB.