When I was 4, a circus came off in Dristor neighborhood.
She was a girl of my age. Her mother resembled a goat. Her father was a cripple.
The fortune teller wore a black hood on her head.
It was a great show.
I returned home. My father was a carpenter. My mother rode an orange bicycle.
The doctor said: “Boy, you are a freak. You’re very thin. Not enough iodine in your drinking-water.”
Mother used to call me “Scheala”. If you ask me, it was a pretty catchy name.
Today, we’re all dead. We smile on photograph albums: Doctors, goats, people, orange bicycles.
Just think about it.