We Were The Soul

This is my submission for the The Halls of Pandemonium day nine prompt from Bradley Ramsey, as per the picture below.

I occasionally write pieces that I am not sure if they should be poems or stories and they often turn into something where I'm not sure if they fit the criteria of both, or neither. This is one of those:

I remember the field,
back when I was young.

Every summer, we'd all watch,
as the traveling carnival
came into town.
Trailers and floats arriving.

Families would watch all together.
For the children, the acts
dressed liked nothing we
had ever seen.

There would be different elements.
Some, circus-like,
clowns, acrobats, jugglers
halls of 'monstrosities'.

We'd all play carnival games,
knocking off coconuts,
throwing horseshoes.
All to win a goldfish.

Leaving, feeling full.
High on toffee apples and doughnuts.
That special feeling of being
out under stars.

When we would usually be in bed.

By teenage years, it all ended.
Local council deemed
that the field needed a huge
sports and leisure centre.

Despite the fact the field
played host to sports all year round
aside from carnival days.
It was already space for all.

Not just for those who could pay
to use it.

Still, it was built, and naturally
not invested in. Now it lies empty.
It sits, dilapidated and rotting
a concrete shell.

Apparently, it will be demolished soon.

I walked down there recently
whilst back home.
Reminiscing.
Just for old times' sake.

Notices of demolition
and wire fences,
warn you to stay away,
and of danger.

The old field now mostly mud,
a crumbling, bird-shit covered building
looks nothing like my memories.
The sweet smell of cookies and cinnamon

long since gone.

'NO TRESPASSING'
says a sign on the fence.
Though it's rusted and loosely hanging.
I give it a slight tap with my hand.

It falls.

Now there's no warning.
Now it's not trespassing.

I vault the fence and hear weeping.
A jingling of bells too.
It comes from inside the concrete shell.

I walk closer. It's dark inside the brick walls.
I follow the sound.
A man wearing a medieval jester costume
hunched over, sobbing.

It takes time, but he calms down.
Explains his name is Christophe
and that his father ran the carnival
which used to set up here.

He tells similar stories.
Countrywide, fields built on,
concreted over, no room for carnivals.
Local government makes them real outcasts.

There's nowhere for them.

Tears gently brush his cheeks,
as he recalls seeing  children
excited to see them,
families together

and laments how that
has disappeared, too.

"We brought such smiles,
we were the soul of these places".
Now it's so hard.
We're almost nothing.

He breaks down again.

I put an arm round his shoulder.

He says his father died recently,
sad about how things had changed.
Sounding almost glad, that
his delirium near the end

made him believe the families still came.

He sobs, voice faltering;
"Just to make someone smile
would be enough right now".

"I'd love to be enough, right now".

He explained how so many
places they used to visit
are now echoes of this one.
Empty, bereft, soulless.

"The families can't come
to the carnival,
if there's nowhere
for the carnival to be".

He explained how
it is now hugely scaled back.
Less dates.
Less performers.

"In between, I travel
to the old places.
Part time jobs,
here and there.

I scatter Dad's ashes
on the grounds he once loved.
Imagining the music,
the cheers, the laughter.

He drops his head.

I circle the floor as he talks.
Kicking small broken stones together.
I pick up four larger ones,
just smaller than tennis balls.

"Can you juggle these?", I ask.
He looks and grins.
Almost sheepishly,
a smile part happy/part sad.

His eyes shine, though.

I find my phone.
Searching for carvival
or circus songs.
Once found, I hit play.

He picks up the stones,
juggles them.
Never dropping them once.

More elaborate tricks too.
Even given the not ideal
surface below us,
cartwheels and flips follow.

I give him an ovation after.
As loud as one person can muster.
The jester hugs me tightly, so tightly.
My ribs start to ache.

Even if just for a moment,
I hope he felt 'enough'.

"Thank you", he says.

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