Signorina

Mrs. Delaney was a sad figure. Permanently silhouetted against the grainy wood of her old cottage, she sat in a creaky rocking chair and stared out at the world from behind a thick, dusty, volume. 1

There was no doubt about it: she was old. Like a tree, you could count how many years she’d lived by the wrinkles in her forehead. 2

Many children thought of her fearfully, naming her some kind of witch, and referring to her in their lists of reasons for not wanting to grow up. Adults were humbled, amazed that someone could live through so much time. Sometimes people congratulated her on her birthday, but this was a hollow effort. Mrs. Delaney’s eyes seemed to change – turn softer, maybe – but other then that, no one ever got any reaction. Even those devils who threw stones at her porch couldn’t get a rise – always, always, she was still.3

It was known by everyone that Mrs. Delaney, whose maiden name was Fayette, had come from France. It was slightly less well-known that she actually had a first name, which happened to be Helene. Somewhere in complete obscurity was the fact that she had been an esteemed dancer before she relocated to the United States. If one had cared to, he could have entered her house and, upon first sight, noticed the remnants of this life. Framed photographs of Helene Fayette in various ballet performances covered the walls of each room. In one of the corners, gathering dust, were the pointe shoes so adored by Mademoiselle Fayette’s fans.4

What had happened to this time? What happened to Helene’s reign as idol, dancer extraordinaire, exceptional beauty, queen in all but blood?5

After the accident, Mrs. Delaney came to this small town in dusty Iowa. It was her attempt to hide from the world, to create a new person in her name, to start over. But she couldn’t escape her past, no matter how much she tried. 6

It became more and more often that she sat on her front porch, eyes aiming outside but vision aiming inside. She relived the moments before the accident over and over again. Sometimes, she went through past performances. Other times, she remembered her first great romance… and then its failure. Sometimes, she remembered when she met Mr. Delaney. Occasionally, the deaths of people she’d known drifted through her mind – but mostly, mostly, she was dancing again. Spinning through the world – a beautiful, controlled blur. Pink, or white, or tan, and, even once, blue. Leaping, landing in the arms of strength, tasting joy, and spinning again. There was fear, there was laughter, there was pain, there was love – all in one pseudo-frenzied dance after another.7

What was life after life? The same thing, repeated eternally.8