When I was little I had this ballerina book, I don't know who gave it to me or when but whoever did was consistently cursed in this household because this was the one and only book I ever wanted to read. "Pick a book to read Greta," Mom would say, and I would cheekily pretend that I was looking in the bookcase when I always just chose the same book every time. I hid it behind my back running up and jumping on the bed showing it to her, then giggling at her strained expression.
"Oh no! What will happen?" I said hiding my face in the covers in the middle of the story, knowing full well what would happen, but so caught up in the story for the millionth time. The ending was what got me every time. The small ballerina was standing there on a beautiful stage looking up at all those people. Brave and beautiful, dainty yet strong. I wanted that, I wanted that feeling, I wanted to be on that stage. Not the laminate one in the gym that I had my recitals on. I wanted the stage with the European crests and timeless elegance. I would stare at that picture then dream about it. Seeming so far from where I was but resonating so strongly within me. The book would mysteriously disappear for some amount of time but the image and the feeling of it would always stay with me. One day, I would get there...