the one in the air

she can't tell you
enough times how she used to be
a ballerina.
her eyes drift off
as she speaks softly
of being on stage, the music,
the applause,
how young she was,
how light on her feet,
on her toes.
her arms out like petals
on a rose.
I need to write a book about
my life she says,
as if it's over
at the age of fifty, as if
nothing else could come close
to those few years.
you should have seen me then,
she says, taking a picture
from her purse.
that's me, the one in the air.