When I was young, my mother took me to a carnival. I loved the funhouse, with the twisting tunnel that made you dizzy to walk through, the mirrors that altered your height, but my favorite was the glass maze. The mirrors and windows made it nearly impossible to navigate through the whole thing without slamming into a wall that wasn't there before.
The time that I spent with my mother was usually at the carnival. I think it was just an excuse for her to not have to take care of me for a while.
The year that it shut down was probably the saddest time of my life. I cried for a week, and my poor mother had no idea how to handle me. I mourned for the loss of my carnival for only a few months before almost completely forgetting about how sad I was.
Exactly six months after the carnival shut down, I was awoken by music. It was soft, but I could hear the flutes and the bells and the drums. It was carnival music. I leapt out of my bed and snuck out of the house wearing nothing but footie pajamas and a stocking hat. There it was. In the place where the empty house across the street used to be. Bright and loud and happy. My carnival.
Immediately I sprinted to the fun house. I ran through the twisting tunnels, slid down the static-y slide that made my hair stand on end, and finally ducked into the glass maze.
My mother wondered why I came home crying that night.
I didn't tell her about the carnival.
I didn't tell her about how the glass maze wasn't what it used to be.
I didn't tell her that I started into the maze with my usual pattern, left left right straight right.
I didn't tell her that my reflections followed the same pattern, until one of them stopped. Standing perfectly still.
I didn't tell her that it waved at me, smiling.
And I didn't tell her that I almost took its outstretched hand when it was offered to me.
