Clowns

I imagine my father laughing goodnaturedly at my misguided gumption, at my need to do something, anything, to get on with the business of living. I hear him say, “What a bunch of clowns,” and I’m strangely consoled. Grief, with its outsize dimension, has made me feel so small, so unsure, and so overwhelmed. The suddenness of my father’s death felt so absurd—and somehow only the sad, strange, absurd landscape of the clown makes sense of it.

I think maybe we love clowns because we all feel, at one time or another, dizzyingly lost. At the end of workshop day, I feel grateful to be in this group of incompetent, wonderful lunatics with their crazy costumes and their red noses. Their antics do not assuage my grief, but I feel less alone; and absurdly, wildly, hopeful.