Mom at the Circus

He winked at her. He couldn’t help it: she was sitting in the front row, grinning up at him. It nearly hurt to see her mouth stretched that far, her eyes glowing with awe and astonishment, teeth sparkling, giddily absorbing all the wonder she could gather. She stood first. The ovation would have happened anyway, but she stood first and clapped as long and hard as she could and he winked, at her—standing just above and over her in his crazy-clown costume—master of ceremonies, leader of light and song. She had gasped—screamed really—earlier, when one of the acrobats glided over her head like a bird soaring through other-worldly heavens. As confetti roiled through the tent, we were all transformed, caught in a snow-globe—gently shaken.

I wonder if she remembers, the last time we were at a circus together, when her stepfather took us on a four-hour drive to see Ringling Bros and Barnum & Bailey Circus’ Greatest Show on Earth. There were three rings and elephants and lions and tigers and high-wire acrobats and clowns stuffing themselves into tiny cars. I thought she liked it. I liked the toy monkey-on-a-string souvenir—I never have cared for clowns, they always seemed sinister and conniving. Con men. I learned much later that her stepfather, an ex-con himself—convicted in a barroom brawl murder, had abused her. Until she told me at his funeral, I hadn’t realized I’d never been left alone with him.