He was 6-years-old.
I had a dream about him the other night. I had almost forgotten the dimples when he smiled, the squirrely grin, the chillibow haircut and the consistent problem of him not turning out his toes.
I was his assistant teacher. Nicholas was a most adorable boy in a class room filled with little ballerinas. He loved ballet. He got to play all the manly roles.
He was so little. I can still see him struggling to pick up Marrissa in the doll dance, and Marrissa was about three feet tall.
As far as we could tell, his mother seemed like a caring sensitive woman. We knew she was having problems in her marriage, but she seemed to have them all under control. I always thought she was the epitome of a rocker chick. She had long permed hair, wore no make-up, and had her right eyebrow pierced.
I will never forget the day I received the phone call. The teacher of the ballet class called me because she wanted to prepare me for questions from the students.
Nicholas was dead.
His mother had lit fire to the hall outside his bedroom, and they both died in the fire. The neighbor had heard him and tried to get him out but couldn't because there were bars on his windows. I think I remember her doing it because in her mind she was protecting him from her husband.
Things are blurry now, but one thing I know - He will always be 6, and I will always remember.
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