Ringmaster

The spotlight had been his since the beginning. The strut, the confidence, the flawless twirl of his top hat from his right hand and across his back to his left that flipped it to the top of his dark curls. She had never seen him practice it, he had always known. Or so she had believed as a small girl. Maybe he had practiced over and over before her, and in frustration had thrown his hat to the ground many times before. Maybe he had mastered it by the second day. How was she to know? They said that he let the monkeys bring her flowers on each birthday starting with the day she was born. Since her beginning, he had taught her how to feed the lions, smooth the creases flat before rolling the tent tarp tightly, how to brace herself squarely as the horses rode in so that they must run around her instead of over her. The countless hours of criticism that made her fly effortless on the trapeze bar that made her not fear for the tautness of the net below. Why had he not shown her how to flip her hat? She could fake the confidence, even so quickly after she had arranged his flowers on his headstone. She could crack the whip expertly to keep the jaguars at the precise distance. But she would never be able to fake the hat roll across her shoulders. As the spotlight searched and the drum rolled, she took in a solid breath and turned her mouth corners upright. She couldn't forgive him for leaving her. She couldn't forgive him for making this life enticing enough that a simple one wouldn't suffice. She couldn't forgive him for never remarrying and leaving her here alone, surrounded by people. The expectation was too large. If only he had taught her the hat trick, maybe she would forgive him for dying.