“I didn’t see you at Monday night’s ballet class,” my dance instructor, Amy, said.
I take her group ballet class on Monday nights and a private lesson on Fridays at noon.
“I had to stay home,” I replied. “My ex-husband has Alzheimer’s, and he was really confused that night. I didn’t feel comfortable leaving him.”
I rarely used to talk about my personal life. But since I started writing, I’ve found myself opening up about things I used to quietly keep to myself.
“Oh, really?” Amy paused. “My mom has Alzheimer’s too. We moved from England to San Diego to take care of her.”
I looked at her in shock. “From England? How long have you been taking care of her?”
“Ten years.”
Ten years.
I had always liked Amy. There was a softness in her face and a warmth in her posture. Slender and graceful, she seemed to float across the room like a gentle breeze whenever she danced. There was something about her that felt strangely familiar to me, though I couldn’t quite place it.
Amy and her husband run a nonprofit ballet academy, teaching children and adults daily while preparing students for performances and competitions—all while raising a young son of their own.
I tried to imagine juggling all of that—raising a child, running a ballet school with hundreds of students, and caring for a mother with Alzheimer’s.
“That must be so hard,” I said.
“That’s okay,” Amy said gently. “There are so many things we’ve been blessed with. Our son was born here.”
She smiled at me, her eyes lighting up.
And suddenly, I knew.
I had seen those eyes before. That smile.
My youngest aunt.
I was raised by my grandparents and my youngest aunt. My aunt was a kindergarten teacher who danced beautifully. When I was little, she taught me how to dance and perform. She took me shopping and dressed me in pretty skirts, shoes, and headbands.
I was her little princess.
And just like Amy, my youngest aunt spent much of her life taking care of other people. She cared for my grandparents through their final years. When three of her older sisters became sick, she traveled for hours across the city for doctor appointments and sat beside hospital beds until they passed away.
And while she was doing all of this, her own husband was battling lung cancer. For three years, she stayed devotedly by his side.
Loss seemed to keep finding its way to her door. And every time it did, my aunt answered. She carried the burden. She offered comfort. She stayed when things were hardest.
Gradually, her own health deteriorated. She barely slept. Sometimes, the only way she could find rest at night was to dance all day.
And how she loved to dance.
I can still see her in a light-blue silk dress, gliding across the floor like a fairy. Her arms stretched gracefully into the air as she moved effortlessly with the music. Then she turned and smiled at me, her face radiant with joy, her eyes filled with hope and love. That smile is forever imprinted in my memory.
A year ago, my aunt passed away from a blood disease. She danced almost until the end.
Now, I was standing in a ballet studio in San Diego, thousands of miles from where my aunt and I had danced together so many years ago.
And there was Amy. A dancer. A teacher. A mother. A daughter caring for someone with Alzheimer’s. A woman who had rearranged her entire life to care for someone she loved.
She smiled at me again.
For just a moment, the years and the miles disappeared.
I was a little girl again, my aunt beside me. I looked up at her, admiring her warm face and beautiful eyes. She knelt down, gently brushed the hair from my forehead, straightened the bows on my skirt. Then she took my hands in hers. We began to dance, twirling, laughing.
I looked into Amy’s eyes, and I could almost feel my aunt standing right there in the room with us.
Maybe the people we love don’t completely leave us.
Maybe they come back in ways we don’t expect—in a familiar smile, a warm gaze, a kindness we recognize, or someone who dances into our lives at exactly the right moment.
Amy turned on the music.
And we began to dance.
