My name was just Korey, then. I was my mother’s only child. I had no father I knew. I grew up in a small town, in the country.
A carnival came to the big field, back behind the house I shared with my mother. I didn’t know the carnival was coming to town that day. Just passing time and I saw it. I climbed over the back fence, and stood in the field behind the house where the grass grew wild and our small town ended in fields and fields and fields of long grass right up to the mountains. It was evening twilight. The stars were already peeking out from beyond the veil of the blue sky. Bugs jumped from stalk to stalk. I held my hands out to run them along the wispy tips of the grass. The bugs were going to the carnival, too, I reckon, after the bright lights and the sweet cotton candy. I heard the music over the hill. I wasn’t expecting music like that – old music, like the kind they’d play for tap dancers. I wanted to go.
My mother said to me “Got the brain of a frog sometimes, girl” when I asked her. Then, when I asked her again, “No, and I mean it. You’ve got work in the morning.”
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