When the Clown Needs to Smile

And so it came to be that she was never me and I was never her.

We co-existed for so long, it was a team of two. I was the puppet-master and she the puppet. I was the skin behind the mask. No one ever knew me, only she.

It was her they all adored, a tiny piece of me that they could see. Ever smiling, never worried, always a delight to be around. They loved her, and why wouldn’t they? She listened intently and seemingly absorbed their every worry so that by the time the evening was through, they were light-hearted and filled with joy once more.

But evenings of absorption would take its toll on her and that’s when she would lean on me for help.

I took those worries away purely by existing. She could only become me once the room was empty and the light had faded.

She was ow free to be me. Nervous and anxious. Unsure and hostile. Unwilling and drained. But as me, I could not quite reach for help, she wouldn’t let me.

Who do you call when the clown needs to smile?

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