The Fair

I rise above it all, the Adult Swing lifting me 30 ft from the cement,

where scraps of corndog, wisps of cotton candy and discarded cigarettes

keep company with my shoes.

As I gain elevation, the din fades, only the noise of delighted shouts

swirling around me now in the late August air.

I see below the lights of the glider, the fun house, the arcades,

the food stalls where I convinced my father to buy me far too much cotton candy

for my own good so many years ago –

the remnants of its sticky crystalline sugars coated my mouth and fingers,

a proud testament to the feat I had performed at seven years old.

The swing lifts me higher now, causing my stomach to quiver,

reminding me that rides can still incite within me a fearful excitement.

Reminding me of a time when the greatest disappointment

was not being able to go back a third time to the games booth

to not win the bright blue over-stuffed bear, again.

Reminding me of a time when my friend’s parents were simply just divorced,

not scarred, not hurt, not broken by the pain.

Reminding me of a time when I knew only of the comedic antics and card tricks of that family friend,

not of the unspeakable reason he went to prison, why he rarely sees his daughter now.

Reminding me of a time when friends drifted away because of changed bus routes and different dance classes,

not because you realized they didn’t have the courage to care about you,

to make you a part of their life.

Now I can see it all, 30 ft from the cement: the bright hues of the Ferris Wheel

and the places where the paint has chipped away.