Tightrope

I was kidnapped into the circus at a young age, after the ringmaster saw me crossing a river flooding and gushing with water. I stretched the rope over it, first lassoing a tree on the other side, and made my way over the rapids. I must have been quite a sight, but I was only trying to find a quick way back home.

I could feel eyes on me, when I was halfway across there, and it gave me such a start I nearly fell. I dared not glance back, but my balance was shaky as I made my way across. Upside-down , the blood rushing to my head, my hands gripping the rope. This is the simplest way across, the safest way, and also the way that drew the most cheers when I was under the hot lights of the big top, the crowds below me. They were distracting, and I always found the noise made me a little nervous, although I grew used to these endless streams of faces, the endless towns, another show. In my sparkly tutu and sheer tights, I could feel the fixation of the crowd below me. At first it was exciting, when I grew used to having something to look forward to again, after the worst shock of the harsh separation from my home wore on. As I grew older, into a woman with no lover, only faraway stranger’s faces, I began to see this as a kind of courtship, false and one-sided, and that I captivated many. To what end? But it gave me comfort to think that I was part of somebody’s imagination and fantasy.