“Today we are here not to feel remorse for a death, but to celebrate life.”

Those were the first words of a man, a stranger, speaking at Robert Underwood’s, my former ballet instructor, memorial service. I had not seen or heard from Mr. Robert for over a year. Months prior to the service I made the decision to separate ways with my dance teacher of many years in order join a different instructor. To put it bluntly, I ditched Mr. Robert for someone I thought at the time was better and who in theory was going to make me a better dancer. But at that morbid event I wondered if things would have been different if I stayed. I was wearing a new black dress, which I had hoped to be first worn for a chippier occasion, and mascara which was obviously a mistake I had not realized I made when I was getting ready earlier that day.

The speaker was very good. Even though he had never known the person he cautiously spoke of, it felt as if he was talking about a lifelong acquaintance. But no matter how well his words were constructed, my eyes wandered and my mind left. I was stubborn. I did not want to listen anymore. I didn’t listen anymore. Perhaps I was in a form of denial. A denial I wasn’t even aware of.

I closed my eyes and my mind returned to its innocence of a twelve year old girl. I was back in the old ballet studio. Mr. Underwood‘s stories of worldly travels amazed me. His mini history lessons of ancient ballet geniuses intrigued me. And his anatomical corrections attempting to fix my dancing never ceased to confuse me. In the made up little studio in my head I realized, although he wasn’t the best teacher, how truly a beautiful dancer he was not only in the studio but in the world.

Perhaps I could have lived in my make believe dance haven for eternity if only I wasn’t so rudely awakened by reality.

“His death was so sudden yet so imminent as I am sure it will leave an indelible mark on all our hearts. Besides, I’m sure it was best that he finally left us, for the pain was surely becoming unbearable for him.”

The speaker’s words were knives jabbing into my gut, violently removing me from my once sweet dreams. I opened my eyes. I looked around. Everyone had tears in their eyes. Little girls with bows in their hair had tears in their eyes. Old women with curly silver locks had tears in their eyes. Even my ten year old brother had tears in his eyes. Then I stopped looking around and I realized I had tears in my own.

I sat there unable to stop the inconsistent gulps of air exiting and entering my lungs and the hot splattering orbs falling everywhere. These orbs, however, were not made of water as they were actually liquified guilt. I covered my face with my hands, not wanting others to see, to know of my sadness. Moments passed. I didn’t know if seconds, minutes, or hours passed. All I knew was that I remained hidden throughout the entirety of the rest of the service. I just sat there wallowing in a pathetic ball never looking up until it was all over. When my mother made her way to me, I was wound up with emotions and my lips began to flood.

“I betrayed him! I left him and ran off with some other teacher. How could I have done that?” I shouted.

“And now I know I can’t even tell him how sorry I am...or how grateful I am for everything he’s given me.”

My painful words of truth suddenly revealed all the evils within my heart. For months I had been actually running from the disgusting beast of guilt that had been born from my silence. After my outburst, my mother nodded, took me in her arms and hymed hypnotic verses of “it’s okay” and “it’s not your fault”, for what else could a mother possibly do. Burying my face in her chest, I finally calmed down.

When I came in to the service that muggy Houston day, I was told my old mentor had died. But inside I still did not know he died. I did not accept that he would forevermore be nonexistent in this world. Because if I did, I would have admitted to my own faults and my own guilty secrets that not even I knew about.  But after all the singing and sermons and flowers and tears, I finally knew. And I finally accepted everything. That even though I was facing my demons, the point of that day was to not focus on myself but to celebrate Mr. Robert’s truly beautiful life. And as I left the church giving my condolences, some genuine and some not, I walked out of the grand cathedral exit with its intricate designs. I said goodbye.