Circus Salvation

There was the day when the travelling circus moved into our living room. The clowns moved

in first. Mom offered them lemonade and couldn’t stop laughing. The bearded lady glided in,

winking at Dad, tickling his chin with her silky beard. Dad, who had long been unwell,

blushed around the ears. The strong man came in and plopped down on the living room sofa.

He sat on the crushed, stained cushions and sighed. You need a better couch, he told my

parents, as if it was time to take our lives seriously, to own chairs and living room furnishings

we felt good about. The aerialists flew in next, pulling cobwebs off the ceiling, throwing

them around like lassos. Mom never looked so pretty as she did that day with neon lights

illuminating the dark seeds in her eyes. We’ve needed new blood around here, Dad said,

levitating from his wheelchair, taking her in his arms.