Dear Circus,
I love you so much.
When the Ringmaster said “May all your days be Ringling Brothers Barnum and Bailey Circus days” I felt the weight of a 146 year old piece of Americana being dismantled and the curtain closing on my middle school tightrope walking dreams.
A few weeks later, with fierce nostalgia, a homemade sign, and a friend who bobbed along in my wake of my circus fervor I ventured to the very last Ringling performance. I got beautifully lost in the sugarcoated kaleidoscope of sequins and tricks, sitting in a coliseum filled with circus fans and people whose family trees had been, long ago, made into sawdust for the three ring tent. Tradition filled with surprise. This night the spectacle seemed to be floating on a sense of appreciation.
At the end, the final final bows, but no “may all your days be circus days,” from the Ringmaster. A seemingly darkly profound omission
When the show was over, it couldn’t yet be. The conscientious objectors to reality who didn’t want to have actually been at the final show, milled outside sharing stories and pictures, using tiny circus memory threads to weave themselves into the new fabric of Ringling, stories from those who had been there. A finite group since the awe carrying circus train had made its final stop. The performers were gracious and seemed to have their next adventures planned. The show must go on, even somehow when the show closes.
A kind tip from a joy maker, led to some late night wrong turns and ultimately the train. In contrast to the show it was unnervingly quiet and gray, still. It was a part of the circus I had never seen before, and one that I will now never see again. A treasured discovery.
The next morning, in the rain, the train was still there. Maybe as unable to let go as I was. I thought it would be gone, but realized it didn’t really have anywhere to go. It had always been aimed at the next city of fans waiting to fall in love with the greatest show on earth.