kathleen watt

Rockport Circus, tumbling into my sister Kristina’s backyard, almost fully formed from her imagination and the costume boxes in the attic. Her three daughters, their friends, and an assortment of neighbors served as both performers and audience. Against a backdrop of Rockport Harbor were ad hoc jugglers, low altitude aerialists, a special outfit for the jealous teacup Yorkie, known far and wide as Teeny Tiny Prince Valiant. Evie and I were summarily enlisted. 

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Evie was game but reticent. I, however, carry an authentic strand of antic DNA. Once I might have prepared a ditzy duet with my sister—the “Stepsisters’ Lament” from Cinderella, perhaps. Maybe a sea shanty or a parlor ditty or the exquisitely poised comedy of a Mozart contretemps. 

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How I missed singing with my sister! 

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To conceal my emotion, I volunteered my own “Feats of The Amazing Snorto,” in which, by removing my prosthesis, I could propel milk, pudding, noodles, and small blue-berries from my nose to the astonishment of all. These marvels and others, I confess, I discovered mostly by mortifying public accident. But why not make lemonade of these bitter lemons? Kristina, knowing her audience, counter-proposed a more palatable pirate routine, with genuine eyepatch and giant tin-foil hook. “We’ll have Evie walk the plank with Teeny!” 

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Thus did Evie and I watch nieces and nephews become young adults and young adults become parents. We showed up for county fairs, team sports, and talent shows, holi-days, birthdays and graduations. Despite the cancer and recurring reconstructive surgeries, our lives were full, layered, and rich. Everyone said so. I had only to admit that I did regret my “acquired facial deformity”. Giving in to missing my old self in the mirror, and the path my old self had planned, would have been a relief. But I didn’t dare. To lift that veil would have taken more courage than I could muster. 

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