Ballet, mothers.

Last week a friend invited me to the ballet with her. She is an ardent admirer; me, since the day I hung up my little-used pink satin slippers many, many years ago, not so much. (It wasn't my idea to put them on in the first place.) But I'm always up for a bit of culture and always happy to spend time with this friend, so I went.

It was a brilliant performance, a jarring yet somehow melodious melange of classic and modern, in every aspect – music, costumes, dance moves. At the end, the troupe received multiple ovations, and when I turned to my friend to ask her if she had liked it, it was clear from the tears in her eyes that she was greatly moved.

Me? Tears came to my eyes before the performance had even started, when we walked onto the balcony of the auditorium. The first thing I saw when we emerged from the staircase was a woman who looked just my mother, already seated on the balcony, smiling, laughing, waving and beckoning in our direction. Although I knew that it couldn't be her, and that the woman wasn't really looking at me, for an instant I wanted to laugh and wave back and run over to sit with her for a while.

I so much wanted it to be her.

She is so very far away from me, and it is not only the distance that separates us.

I am thinking of her today, and I am thinking of all of you, those of you who are already mothers as well as those of you who are waiting to be born as such.