Willomena watched from the shadows of the empty big top as her mother glided from one trapeze to another—soaring over a net. From up high, she looked as small as the wasp-sized bird Willomena had seen a month earlier sipping nectar from a hollyhock. She had thought it an insect, until Momma bade her listen to the high-pitched song of its wings.
Now the ropes rattled with Mama’s movements—playing their own tune—a rhythmic creak. A slant of sunlight filtered in from the open flap, warming the top of Willomena’s head while a summer-scented breeze turned through her long curls.
Squatting beneath the benches, Willomena busily gathered her prizes: discarded cigars—she liked those best for the scorched, sweet smell; farthings, crusted brown with mud; red, green, and blue ticket stubs to paste on paper and make pictures.
Everything she found she dropped into a basket with her doll … a porcelain, cream-skinned beauty with real hair the color of a wheat field.
“See my treasures, Tildey?” Willomena grinned at her doll and scratched her itchy nose, her hands grubby with dirt. Mama wouldn’t mind. Dirty hands made the tape grip better. And Willomena’s turn to practice came after Mama’s. She rubbed her fingers on her leotard when a glistening spatter of crushed stained-glass caught her attention.
