Circus

It’s a weird memory, dreamlike. The tightrope artist from the big circus taking place in Grand Rapids. For some odd reason, our family drove there to see this much hyped show. Our family didn’t do things like get in the car and drive thirty miles, the same thirty miles our dad had just driven home from his job in the factory. In hindsight, maybe our dad was trying to do something nice, something normal families did, but he wouldn’t have just driven to the circus on a whim. Maybe he had recently been released from jail after another DUI and thought the circus was a way of making it up to us. Maybe our mom who was riddled with cancer asked if we could go to the circus, and this was his way of reminding us that he was a respectable father, a kind husband.  My brother, sister, and I were intrigued by both the circus and the fact we were there. We felt like we were a part of a normal family sitting on the bleachers oohing and ahhing and laughing and shoving popcorn into our mouths. Then the tightrope artist—or maybe his correct job title was acrobat, either way—fell from a great height, and everyone let out a collective moan, as if we were moaning on his behalf because he seemed lifeless, unable to moan, and my dad got up and muttered, “Shit. Everything good goes to hell.”

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