I loved performing.
It was something I was born to do. At least, that is what Claude said. He always thought I was something special even if I did perform for a bunch of ragamuffin children in an orphanage. Claude always had a way of encouraging people to be there very best, even when he himself was the farthest thing from.
You know, it always confused me as to how a man who was a drunk, poor as dirt and who cleaned out a hovel of an orphanage for a minuscule living could be such a kind man who had words of wisdom that he dropped from his lips like diamonds that he bestowed upon the needy with grace.
The day he had died had been a nightmare. No one ever knew of Claude Rennoit, and they had plowed him over in the streets as if he had been nothing. In their eyes, he was nothing, but in the eyes of 38 children, he was the sun to their dark world.
Did I want to walk a tightrope and perform to a bunch of rich kids every day in central park? Making children who had everything handed to them laugh and enjoy their day? Did I want their parents throwing coins for me on the ground as if I were a dog who would crawl around to pick them up?
In case you are wondering, the answer is no. But I did it for Claude. I did it for the 37 other souls who needed me. I did it for myself, but most importantly, I did it to fill a hole inside of me that could never be filled by anything else. Some people called it destiny, others a calling. . . But to me it was simply filling a hole that yawned in my beating heart.
I took a breath and took three steps across the rope. Feeling it’s one inch rounded thickness through the thin soles of my shoes. I never took my eyes off the rope and I could hear the onlookers bate their breath. I looked up and raised my hands above my heads, feeling one with the rope and swaying with it as if we were glued together. I stared fixedly at the rope and counted to three as I bent my legs and arched my back. At four, I simultaneously jumped and swung my arms forward. Picturing the rope in my head, I felt it beneath my feet as I landed and curled my toes around it’s familiar shape. The gasps, then applause that met my fete filled my heart with delight.
I was indeed born to do this.
What did you think of this prompt? I don’t know why, but it pulled at me. . . I may or may not want to write a story about these orphans. . . Wheels are turnin’ folks. . . and you all know what happened last time with that whole scenario. . . I published a book out of it. . . *hint: Bound*
By God’s Grace,