Remembering a friend he had, translated…
“To J’s dearly beloved friends, we’re sorry to tell you all, that my older sister, J, died yesterday.” At three in the morn, the text message alert came, I was, writing out the performances plans for this next year, I’d originally, wanted, to text the person who’d interrupted me, but, this message that came too quickly, was to bring notifications of the death of a friend in France who I’d lost touch for a long time, J.
a must-have for a ballerina!!! Not my photograph…
In my second year in the Paris Mime Academy, J entered into our class. Being tall, she carried that beautiful looks of the stereotypical European, blue eyes, blonde hair. The first class session, she’d entered into the room, and, caught ALL our gazes; and, even if we’re in a classroom of majority French people, she’d become, the shiny star. What’s outstanding wasn’t just J’s looks, her ballet background had given that delicateness to her miming performances, which none of us had, she was precise and forceful in her performances. As we separated into groups, J’d not hogged the spotlight at all, and, she’d given us all the critiques we’d needed, to get better. At a practice once, she and I were, portraying a snail together. In order to find how we’d fitted to each other, I’d attempted to allow her to kneel on my back, as a shell, and, I’d, lowered myself, and slowly, moved forward. But, because of my carelessness, J fell off my back, and, her knees, landed, on the hardwood floor of the class. She’d wailed aloud in pain, and, consoled me, who was, also in a panic, fearing of injuring her, “Don’t mind it! It’s really, no big deal. You’d just, broken my tool for travel is all.”
From that day on, J’s humor had, became a key, that made us more and more connected by the day, we’d started sharing the experiences of our lives with one another, she’d told me, how the distant lands will always keep her intrigue, said that she was wearing that pair of red ballet shoes that just, kept dancing nonstop, and needed to, feel her own existence, through her own constant migrations. I’d told her, you’re, too much of a romantic, and she’d rebutted, “Give me BACK my legs!”
As the second semester started, J really did leave, she’d called me up from Alsace, as I’d, blamed her for not saying goodbye, she’d laughed lightly, “You should give me all your blessings! This, is the red shoes of love!”, who is the one J loved, she’d never really actually, told me; but, I seemed, to sense, that J will eventually, depart, from my life one day, and so, I’d, told her, that no matter what, she should, try to keep in touch with me. Then, the two, three years that followed, I’d received J’s text messages occasionally, and, there would always be a location of the town she’s in. I’m guessing, that maybe, she’d, entered, into a troupe of performers, or, perhaps, she’s, following the love of her life, as they, trekked across the world.
On the eve of my return back to Taiwan, after I’d finished my semester, I’d called her up, and, I’d reached her voice mail. I’d, left a message, told her my e-mail, and, a loud kiss, as my wish for her to be well.
not my photo…
“J died in her home in Paris”, J’s younger sister continued texting me back. “The final years of my older sister’s life, it was hard on her, the illness had, tortured her to the point, she didn’t feel human anymore.” I’d suddenly recalled, how a few years back, when I’d bumped into her again on the social networking sites. I’d asked J, “So, where, in the world, did your, red ballet slippers take you to?”, J sent me a few faces and replied, “My red ballet slippers can only, spend their time on the treadmills.” I couldn’t understand, WHY, I didn’t ask her more about it, or show her more care and concern, I’d just, sent her a few more smiley faces as my replies.
“My older sister was diagnosed of cancer, six months after she gave birth to a son, it was already in the terminal stage, for the sake of her young son, she’d, fought on, bravely.” J’s sister, slowly, keyed out the replies, and, her emotions may have, found, an extra outlet. “Look, this, is Marco, he’s three.” J’s younger sister sent a photograph of a little boy in shorts, sitting by a pile of sand with her sister’s account, with a red toy shovel, he’d smiled so radiantly at the camera. Little Marco, he has a pair of smiling eyes, JUST like his mom, his existence was, NO doubt, the most beautiful dance move that J has, ever performed.
So, this, is the things left behind, the woman died, because of cancer, and, she’d not let anybody else know, of her conditions, probably because she’d not wanted her friends to worry over her, as there’s nothing they could’ve done, and, she’d left a deep imprint, in this man’s life, whom she’d, impressed, with her performances, and, I’m sure, that the writer will, keep the memories of his friend with him.
Life, the Obstacle Course 