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.

2 thoughts on “Calliope

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