Tight Rope

When I was younger, I would always be shuffled into the back of the tent where nobody else was allowed. Clowns with only half their make-up on, smoking up against massive crates and shouting down their cell phones. I thought that was funnier than their whole act.

My mother was a tight rope walker, the best one in the circus. She could back-flip, cartwheel and do all sorts. All the gluttonous crowd ever wanted was to see her fall. People who genuinely love the circus work in it. The crowds are full of sweaty, sadistic slobs gorging themselves into obesity on snack food. Still, she always got flowers at the end of her performances.

Every night I dreamt that I would walk that rope with my mum watching from the crowd; dazzling them into seduction with purple ribbons. I was going to be an explosion above the ground. But she passed away before she saw me walk that rope.

“Two bags of popcorn please Miss!”

“Sure thing.”

And until I’m out of this wheelchair, I never will.

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