Through the Eyes of a Clown
(For Grandpa McComb, who bought me Clownie when I was 4)
I sit alone at the head of her bed.
If only I could speak
I'd tell of the life of a teenage girl
who once held me to her cheek.
At four, when she opened up my box
and squealed aloud with glee
she picked me up and hugged me,
inseparable, she and me.
I traveled near and far with her
sometimes thrown aside in play
rumpled, crumpled, waiting still
while she stole my heart away.
At ten, she got a fashion doll
and washed and dressed her hair.
Sitting aside and watching
was more than I could bear.
But when the evening rolled around
and off she went to bed
it was I with whom she chose to sleep
and I lay smugly near her head.
At thirteen, she put me back in my box,
not woman yet, not child.
I dreaded not being human
having to wear a sewn-on smile.
One day my box began to shake
as she opened up the lid.
Why, she was now a young lady
not a shy and little kid.
At sixteen, she held me tight again
and tears came to her eyes.
I felt a sense of belonging there,
inseparable, she and I.
Becky Williamson (1979)