I was a rule breaker once. A long, long time ago I made
people laugh. I clowned my way through childhood, mimicked and pranked my
teenage years away. My ordinary was my genius.
I grew up. First I got serious, then I got important. Rule
maker. Master. Servant to the institution, I bricked up my clown.
I was humane - I left a breathing hole, a clue to where I’d buried
her. Trickster. Houdini. She wasn’t done with me. Not at first. Pale and wasted,
she’d pop her head round the door. Wink at me across the room. ‘Just passing,’ she’d
mouth above the rows of important heads. ‘Only me,’ she’d whisper when I refused
to look at her.
Months passed.
I stopped seeing her or perhaps she went away,
gone off to play somewhere else.
Years passed.
And then one day, she came back. No warning. Just waiting
for me when I got home. I kept her on the doorstep.
She told a gag. I’d heard it before. She did a funny walk. I’d
seen it before. She looked bewildered. It was as if she’d never been away.
‘I’ve missed you,’ we said.
And because of that, I broke some rules.
And because of that, I found my ordinary again.
And ever since that day, I’ve kept my clown up close.
