It is already winter, December. I remember December. In one month of the wintertime, we live in Florida, in Gibtown, in this trailer park of other circus people and animals and amusement rides. Some retired; some not.
In Gibtown, there is a lion and some monkeys and three silly little dogs in frilly pink tutus next door. There is a rusted Ferris wheel and a crumbling silent carousel and an abandoned cotton candy stand. There is a fire-eating not-nice man and his kind wife, Mary the Bearded Lady, and my friend the Alligator Boy. This is where we all rest in December.
I am not made for snow, or for cold, so I am pleased to be here, in Florida, in Gibtown, where it smells warm and sweet like orange blossoms. I live in a field thick with flowers and grass, free to roam.
I love my vacation month. Bill always gives me a special gift for Christmas.
On this dusky Friday night, I see the colorful strands of lights draped from Bill and Violet’s mobile home. Red and green twinkles, glimmers of hope. Through the window, I can see the tree, sparkly-light, shining very bright. I see my mahout, my sweet keeper—Bill the Giant. I see his tiny wife Violet.
Bill and Violet sometimes weep, especially at Christmastime, in Gibtown in December. They remember how much they miss the girl, their granddaughter, that odd girl Lily. They wish for something different for their daughter.
I know exactly how they feel.