By Will H. Blackwell, Jr.
Funny thing, memory. I suddenly recall sounds of a summer, long ago.
The fair came to town. I remember the merry-go-round—its lyrical, wind-whistle calliope—children laughing on carousel-horses—people passing by with cotton-candy, snow-cones.
I recall sawdust-alleyways, the concessions—trying to toss coins into a cup, from an awkward angle, to win a stuffed-animal.
I did win a prize, for a pretty girl I saw, too shy otherwise to introduce myself.
But she liked someone-else, the rejection still embarrassing.
Silly to think of—when I am merely hearing the ‘electronic calliope’ of an ice-cream truck, paused in the neighborhood.
Will Blackwell enjoys reflecting on the past, although sometimes regrets such musings.