He Asks If I’ve Been to the Circus
by Bri Rose-Baker
The first time was with my mother. I was not old enough to have double digits, but I remember the scents: stale popcorn, sweat, manure. A goat tried to eat my dress. My mother laughed so hard her eyelids resembled raisins. Tickles at the back of my throat made me chuckle before I realized it was happening. I was laughing; we both knew I had to.
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A circus doesn’t have to have lions in collars, roaring in hunger, seeking a corner to hide in. It’s the bread aisle of your grocery store, putting a loaf in front of your face when you see an ex coming your way, afraid you’ll give away how you’ve always felt about him, how you still feel.
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A circus isn’t always clowns. Sometimes it’s the moment you drag lipstick across your lips and only later catch it on your two front teeth. (Or maybe, it is clowns. Only the clown was me, with my burgundy-stained enamel in front of his mother the first time we met.)
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The circus is leaving an hour early only to find your train has disappeared, a magician’s trick with no applause. Perhaps a rimshot instead as you realize you’ll be late to your dinner date, only to arrive at a question that makes you wish you’d skipped the evening altogether.
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It’s working for dollars that shrink into quarters, then pennies—like pulling smaller and smaller handkerchiefs from your sleeve. Reverse magic. Failing to hold onto anything. It’s licking an ice cream cone too fast, dropping it like a juggler fumbling his pins. Losing a sock to the washing machine and imagining it running off to join the trapeze act. Trying to carry twelve grocery bags in one trip, wobbling like a unicyclist. Walking confidently into a glass door you thought was open. Miming, if you will. (I promise, I only learned the tricks because my mother showed me how to laugh about the goat.)
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But I don’t say any of that when he waits for an answer.
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I say: Baby, we’ve all been to the circus.
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Then, cue the somersaults in your stomach as you anticipate his reply. Will he notice the striped tent, see past the dazzling lights, laugh the way we do? I swipe a finger along my teeth, a little tap to remember.
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BIO
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Bri Rose-Baker is a fiction writer and licensed trauma therapist whose work blends contemporary literary fiction with speculative and magical realist elements. Her stories center marginalized and diverse voices, exploring both the beautiful and the terrifying sides of life. Outside of writing and therapy, she can be found at her local pottery studio, wildly dancing at concerts, or fiercely (sometimes too competitively) playing board games with her loved ones. She can be found online at brisbrainbabies.com.
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WHY I WRITE
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Giving into the theme, the reason I write can best be told through microvignettes.
First, it should be known that I love a good gab session. Me and my closest friends in someone’s living room with finger foods and fun sips, but instead of gossiping about high school acquaintances or celebrities, we’re telling stories. One person takes the stage and shares the most outrageous thing that’s recently happened to them. These are some of my favorite nights.
Second, my husband and I started dating in our freshly plucked early twenties. He introduced me to a bunch of his friends, and one of them asked the very normal question of how we met. We looked at each other and, without any planning or prior discussion, launched into a long tale about how I was participating in a flash mob gone wrong in a grocery store and he helped me escape. It was several years before we admitted to everyone that it was Tinder all along.
Lastly, my earliest memory of my bookshelf as a kid was filled with books about how to write and how to be a writer.
In short, I write because I love stories, because I’ve always told stories. I truly believe they have the power to pull us from our darkest moments and make us feel understood, cared for, even hugged. I write to get these stories out of my head and into the world, in hopes that they let others know we’re all in this wild life together.
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​SOCIAL MEDIA
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Instagram: @briannealexandria
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