The Ferris Wheel
Euphoria. High-pitched giggles. Squealing to Mama that 'my circus' had come to town when I saw its pink and purple lights. Sitting on her lap as it spun round and round. Crying big fat tears when it is time to get off. Sweaty palms. Kisses from Mama telling me all would be okay. Two tiny baby pink Nikes that are in the attic in the house I grew up in next to my porcelain dolls.
Fear. Acid in my stomach. Fake smiles. False hope this moment could save us. One last video taken on an empty Ferris wheel in a small town's cornfield. Nervous laughs. Sweaty palms. Kisses that were band-aids. A pale pink pig that was left on the kitchen floor next to my wedding veil.
Nostalgia. Chainsmokers onstage. Neon fireworks in the sky as the packed Ferris wheel stopped with us at the top. Sweaty palms. Kisses that were promises to bridge the distance. A hot pink wristband that lives in an old cigar box you gave me, next to our subway tickets, in a town thousands of miles away from you.
Hope. Cheeks flushed, heart beating quicker. An abandoned Ferris wheel out on the pier. A polaroid picture taken and put onto the dash. Me continuing the drive south alone, knowing there will always be another ride around the Ferris wheel.