Trevor didn’t sleep, but staring at the ceiling, he still dreamed. Visions of a wondrous circus he’d never seen before filled his head. Under an immense purple and gold tent, he saw a sweaty woman with a thick curly beard, acrobats as delicate as flowers, ribbons tied to their arms and legs like kite tails, and giant barred cages for animals.
After days of moods that barely ranged between depressed and melancholy, his mother made an appointment with Dr. Morris, who, with but a dozen questions, diagnosed it as a combination of insomnia and an overactive imagination. Trevor’s mother was certain it was neither.
At eleven years old, Trevor was shaking off the tail end of childhood but not yet ready to learn the truths of manhood, and the siren call of the circus sang to him.
As he stared at the ceiling, his parent’s voices floated up to him.
“I think he needs to join the circus.”
“He can wait.” His step-father replied.
“Is it so bad then?”
“No- yes! You might call it a family tradition.”