Blessed Virgin of the Circus: Epilogue

Yana collapsed on her bed, a weight free from her shoulders. She felt emptied. Voided. Didn’t want drink or drug now. The camper was so utterly quiet. She was sadder at all the hard work they had put into the sister act to get here, only to lose it all.  “But that’s life,” she heard Aunt Lala say. Work so hard only so lose it. That was the life they had chosen, anyway. In the empty trailer, she wished for arms to hold her. No men fucking her, no cold-ass Jorge. She wanted Lala or Uncle. Maybe Mom or Dad. She knew Mara was gone, and they would never hug or sleep close again. Yana wondered at the abyss that Mara might’ve seen in her last moments. Was she free? Was she sad? No way to know. Was it Godless? Did she see the Virgin’s face, maybe? Drained, Yana finally met the shore of dreams.

**

It was 4am. Jorge stumbled, with a small flashlight, finally finding the small, raised mound. The moon was a sliver, and it was too dark to see whether there was any blood nearby. He hadn’t visited for weeks.

“Blessed Virgin,” he whispered, “I know there was a child. I don’t know its name, but I know there was one. I have never had a last confession, but I wanted to confess to you. I’m not Catholic anyway. It was mine, I know it was. I had a dream about it. I won’t lie; I’m glad she lost it. I didn’t want another. So much work. I couldn’t’ve and I know, and at least I’m honest about it. If you and Jesus really forgive like they say you do, know that I am honest about this. You must know that.”

A pause of a minute or two.

“So, I’m sorry. I don’t think what I did was wrong or a sin or anything but something tells me that I should say sorry. Maybe to her?” They hadn’t spoken except for a few formal words at the funeral.

No answer came. The statue looked dry, but Jorge couldn’t tell in the dead of the night. “Well, anyway, it helped to talk to someone.”

**

LaShawn slept dreamlessly that night. It was the first evening in years where he couldn’t recall a dream. But this time he felt himself floating, detached from his body. No carnage, no colors, no landscapes. Sometimes a silvery film over everything, but everything looked as it normally did on the site. He reached out with his unconscious hands to physically touch the tightrope materials. Tiny microbraid, like the fancy, swirling braids the sisters liked to wear in their hair. The DNA of the circus. Despite the lack of dream, a voice came to him: “No falling. Just flying.”


LaShawn could have sworn that lips softly and gently met to kiss his. A brush. He did see an image now. The gentle stroke of watercolor on canvas. Colors lighter than ever before, from dark olive hands.

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