Midway to Love

Joe R.
Water balloon game
Third booth from the right

Dear Joe,

There was something about Sunday night at the carnival that hit me right in the center, in that perfect sweet spot – just, I don’t know, life. It’s sitting in my heart and sweetening even now. Soon I won’t be able to think about it without crying.

Maybe it was the cotton-candy smell of your hair or the way you offered me that corndog. Maybe it was the glint in your eye when you said you’d fixed the water balloons so seat seven always won, or the pained frown on your face as you recounted your stint in the dunking pool.

I could relate to that. Most of my life has been pretty terrible, you know. Most of it has been pain and deprivation and finding the good in the bad and ugly, and most of the time I haven’t even noticed. What’s happened to me has dug trenches in my spirit, and I’ve learned to live with these wells of suffering.

My capacity may be larger than others’. I’ve become, or have always been, sensitive.

But I didn’t need to attend to those on Sunday with you, didn’t need to allot myself joy or surprise or happiness. I didn’t need to save up against an uncertain future. I didn’t need to tamp down trust or love or kindness, Carnie Joe, and that was a marvel.

You’ll be surprised to find that you’ve helped me – who skipped church for a ride on the Tilt-A-Whirl – relate again to God. You’d be surprised, except that the path between me and God is the measure of my health, of my willingness to accept good things.

I am willing now. God as my witness, I am willing to take pleasure in life, maybe for the first time.

It’s like a miracle.

When we came back out from behind the bearded lady’s tent, I didn’t know how to say it without really saying it, and I was afraid to try and fail, so I sabotaged the chance. I turned around and walked away and felt worse with each step because I wasn’t being honest – and that’s what I promised to do. I promised myself, and I promised you, I thought, implicitly, that there would be no secrets between us.

I understand that some things can’t be touched directly, that they’re too sensitive. I understand that’s why you haven’t written yet – you’re savoring the memory, too.

We had one glorious night. I don’t expect any more. And I’m not saying anything, anything at all, except thank you.

But if you’re ever in town again, Carnie Joe, look me up.

I’m in the phone book.

Yours sincerely,
Dolores