Too Many Clowns

I actually left the cabin last Friday. Drawn out by the smell of market candy. Not that I could smell it from home, but somehow I could in my mind.

Every year our small town hosts a market. By "market" I do not mean anything particularly large or impressive. Just large enough to lure a few couch dwellers out of their hiding places. Sometimes I wonder where all these people spend the rest of the year.

I have a lot of memories tied to the market. Stalls full of trinkets nobody really needs, but somehow still ends up buying. The smell of fried food and cotton candy mixing in the air. The pedestrian street, usually quiet, suddenly crowded with people.

There are usually activities for children too. Many years ago, I even stood there myself, handing out yellow helium balloons and newspapers.

There is also the annual duck race. Hundreds of small rubber ducks released into the narrow channel that runs through town. People place bets on which one will reach the finish line first. In theory it sounds exciting. In practice, the ducks drift along so slowly that most children lose interest long before the race is over.

This year felt different

This year did not feel the same. The rain fell without interruption. A grey blanket hung over everything. There was no need to squeeze through crowds or stop for endless conversations. I was grateful for that. Near the square, a man dressed like a clown was teaching juggling. A little later I spotted him again, playing circus tunes on a saxophone.

Then I saw the inflatable castle.

It stood alone on the wet asphalt.

A giant clown face looked down from above. There was something about its expression that felt slightly wrong. No children. No queue. No noise. Just rain.

I stopped and snapped a photo. Too many clowns, really.

Looking at it later, it almost feels as if the clown was waiting for something.

Or someone.