The Ballet Dancer (Season) by Mongolita

For a long time, I thought and I thought about what my story would  be about. All kinds of ideas came to mind. Maybe I could  write  about the four seasons:  autumn, winter, spring and  summer. Though my two favourite seasons are Autumn when the leaves on the trees change to different shades,  from green to deep red and then yellow before they fall to the floor;  and Spring when it bursts into full colour of whites, pinks, reds, oranges as the plants come into full bloom.  But then, late one night something incredible happened.   My brain pinged and I was wide awake, my mind racing. The image of Dad playing one of his favourite pieces of classical music, Vivaldi’s ‘The Four Seasons’ - was so vivid it felt almost real. Was  I dreaming or was I awake? I reached for my mobile and began to make notes before the idea vanished like the smoke into thin air.

Dad had been practicing  modern ballet since  his early twenties and had  performed on a few occasions at the Velarde Theatre in Valparaíso. When Mum and Dad married, however, circumstances changed.  Sadly, he had to give up his dancing  to work and provide for the family   who was on the way - me.

His love of dance left his mark on our generation. My middle sister began attending ballet lessons at the age of seven,  following dad's steps though she continued for only about four years. 

It wasn't until I began writing this story that I made the connection between Dad's love of classical music and the  life he had lived before I came to this world.   

As young children we were brought up  listening to classical music - something  Dad would often  play on his LP player. The normal routine  in our family was that on Sundays Mum would cook a roast  dinner and we would gather around the table, catching up on any news or events that had happened during the week. And in the background, without fail Dad’s LP would be playing - more often than not, The Four seasons,  Swan Lake or Nutcracker. 

Even now, listening to classical music brings a sense of  peace and tranquility to my soul.  It carries me back to those Sundays afternoons to being ten or eleven years old without a worry in the world.

Dad took great care of his belongings. I can still  picture him dusting every last  particle from the LP before placing it on his LP player. His collection  of classical music was impressive. In his library he had Tchaikovsky, Vivaldi, Beethoven - to name a few.   His favourite piece without a question was The Four seasons. 

Dad was in many ways a complex, reserved, quiet and difficult to read person.  Educated  at a boarding school run by priests, he had been shaped from an early age into someone who kept the world at arm's length. His possessions were entirely his own; we were never permitted to touch his radio or his LPs. They were his treasures, his sanctuary.

And yet, every Sunday without fail, he would play Vivaldi.   Perhaps, in those quiet moments, he was returning to the theatre in Valparaíso, to the young man he once was - graceful, expressive and free. The Four Seasons played on, turning and turning, just as his own life had. And we, his family, sat gathered around the table, unknowingly inheriting every note.