Antonia of Queen Street, sits just underneath the harsh light of the donut shop watching people enter and exit the 24 hour business. Her red hair is draped around her long slender neck and what remains of her purple dress is tucked underneath her not so slender body. With every person who enters the store Anotiona mumbles a quick prayer: “May God keep you and your loved ones safe, amen.” She has no harsh feelings for these fortunate souls dressed in silk and suits, the shade of black, blue and grey. She stays at the shop in the harsher months, when Mother nature isn’t so kind. Sometimes the men in suits will buy her a muffin or coffee. Other times young mothers, cradling their children, hand her change,sometimes bills and other times coins. Then they quickly scurry off with a stern look, tell their children, “This is why you must work hard.” She recalls the time she collected $27 from a church group that was visiting the shop, she felt rich, as though these 27 dollars could buy her the respect she ached for, as if the green bills pressed into her palm would speak to her, hold her, love her. She took out her marmalade jar, the label wearing off, and tucked the money inside. On this night however the mother of queen street wanted nothing more then to tell her stories to the inhabitants of the coffee shop. She wanted them to know that despite what she was now, she was once a beautiful ballet dancer. The inside of her throat ached, she wanted to let loose all her secrets, tell the world that Antonia was more then what the streets defined her as.
The next morning, suitcase trailing behind her Anotiona found herself sitting in front of city hall. She had no reason to be here, other then having no where else to go. A brief moment after sitting down on the cold marble steps a security guard quickly approached her. He was around 5 ft and 11 inches, Antonia calculates and under his hat is a thick mass of brown hair slightly resembling a bush. The man point at her suitcase and demands at once to know what it contains. Struggling to gather her confidence Anotiona mutters,
“This is my bag of dreams”
At this the man snorts, but to her surprise sits down beside her.
Let me guess he begins “Inside must be a genie huh? He must have asked you your three wishes already.
She gives him a small laugh. The man smiles and extends a pale yet muscular arm. “Names Officer Smith.” Anonia’s heart begins to race and her excitement gets the best of her. For the first time in a long time Antonia feels as though she has a friend. Losing her composure, Antonia blurts out “I’m Antiona” extending out her beefy arm she continues, “would you like to know how I ended up on the streets officer?” the man gives a quick, yet hesitant nod. Antionia closes her eyes and memories drown her.
In the middle of a dimly lit and ill smelling room a girl hardly older than 20 is positioned in front of a cracked mirror. A single light bulb dangles above her head casting shadows on the once bright white walls. Times have been rough for her family, money was short and resources limited. Bread was now seen as a luxury. She danced her way across the floor, jumping from one foot to the next. In front of her mounted on the walls Antonia found the ballets performances she only wished she could be apart of. Tresor La Tempete and La Retour were all crumbled and yellowing with age but they remained special to her. After all they were the only living memory she had of her mother. The image of the little dancer, for the cover of Tresor had been imprinted into her childlike brain, on the backs of her eyelids when she closed them. Her dreams were made up of this ballerina, covered in silk spinning and twirling while the crowd cheered. Her arms moved upward to third position. Her father was strictly against the arts, and in particular dancing, he was never hesitant to let Antionia and her now deceased mother know how useless, time consuming and wasteful it was. Bending her knees, getting ready to twirl Antonia remembered gathering up all her courage and approaching her father. She handed him the beautiful poster of La Router and left the room. Not moment after she left the cursing and ripping began. She wiped away a silent tear and started dancing her worries away.
Antonia was once a slender young girl with moderate size feet and a beautiful voice. As the young ballerina danced her gaze fell upon a broken, yet usable marmalade jar. Inside were the coins she had collected doing odd jobs here and there. The label indicated that the jar belonged to Antonia and that the money inside was for new dance shoes. The beautiful ballerina paused, positioned on the tips of her toes, fingers interlocked and arms raised above her head. The shouting and cursing was getting closer cabinets were being banged and door slammed. The ballerina lowered her arms once used for expression were now being used as defence, shielding her face from the storm that was now inches away. Her father barged into the dimly lit room and the beautiful sawn lay there, hope draining from her just as it had for the ugly duck. Her father had a glass bottle to his lips and he took a long swig. In his drunk, raspy state he told her that she would be getting married the following day and will be leaving for Toronto, and finally she “thank the lord above” would be out of his sight and the least of his problems. She closed her eyes and the beautiful ballerina, that was scratched into the backs of her eyes drained of colour and slumped forward. The cheering came to an abrupt stop and the only noise was of the tears falling from her face.
The next morning Antonia with one suitcase in hand boarded the first bus that came into her view. Admittedly Antonia did not remember much of the ride there, let alone her marriage or the birth of her first and only son. The years seemed a blur, one endless cycle that never came to an end. She did, however, remember her escape; her escape into the streets of Toronto, Ontoria. In her earlier years being the suitcase lady, Antonia would perform her dances for the world to enjoy. She was happy, her smile was genuine. Antonia of Queen Street, opened her eyes and the silent ballerina was once again spinning, clapping was once again resumed and joy rushed through the old ladies veins, pumping her heart with joy.
Officer Smith could not believe the story he had just heard. Antonia carefully unzips the suitcase and pulls out the posters she had once mounted on the wall. She started at the dog eared pages, this is what has kept her going, the memories of her mother and the joy of dance. Officer smith shook her hand and handed her a $100 bill.
“So the ballerina of Queen Street, can dance for us all,” he said.
