Serena

Lucy doesn't always get it right. She calls me Joanne sometimes. Almost every time I pay for the bellydance class at Serena's studios, she asks me how I spell my name and writes down that I paid.

I've been going there for the past six years...And many others are seasoned veterans. We meet every Tuesday at 7pm and dance for an hour with coin belts around the hips, bare feet and midriff, arms slightly bent at the elbow, chest up, stomach in, we dance...I think the lady who always dances with such passion is an accountant. I know Michelle has a son who waits for her outside the studio, watching something on his DVD player. Kim paints with her husband. Heline speaks French and Hebrew. I don't know Sahara's real name, that's what she goes by on stage. Doesn't matter. We come together every Tuesday and line up to dance.

Serena leads, Serena teaches. She is most passionate about the dance. She treats it with respect. She expects us to do the same. This is a form of art. The figure eight is the most graceful turn a woman's hips can make. Serena watches. Serena shows. She catches when the turns are not just right or when the head could tilt further back. She is a musician, a dancer, a poet, an artist. Serena tells a story to the beat of the dumbek and the wail of the oud. She treats each one of us as real performers. Otherwise, why would you be taking her workshop? She doesn't care what else you do. To her, you are there to honor a centuries old tradition and to learn. Following her, we leave the day behind and take our spots on stage. We move to some other place.

I thought Lucy had it wrong again when she said, "You have not heard what happened to Serena?" I said no, expecting to hear that maybe she was sick. Lucy looked down to the money envelope, wrote my name down and said "God...took her," shaking her tiny blonde bun and pursing her red lips.

I didn't cry right away. The class had started. Another teacher was leading. I grabbed a veil from under the closet and took my spot. I looked around. Kim seemed OK, but Sahara was a ghost. Her pink outfit was shouting love and life, but she was struggling not to sulk. We took turns to walk four beats and turn back to the right and then to the left. I don't think I did it right. Serena would not have let it slip...The teacher tried to keep the flow going. She just wanted to keep the class alive, I guess.

I knew it was true when I saw the dancer next time break into tears while waiting for her turn to do the routine. Lucy was right? How could it be?

I had had my last class with Serena and I did not know. She didn't either. Does she remember me now, wherever she is? I remember her...my body remembers her in each lift...in every pose...I promise I'll spot when I turn. I promise I'll practice my zills at home. I promise, I will smile when I perform. Lips parted...we parted...she parted...