The Sun Will Come Out
I was walking my lamb “Cole” as I did every afternoon. I had named my lamb after Cole Porter. I was fifteen years old. Cole and I were walking through the deserted grounds of the Maricopa County Fair in Phoenix, Arizona. The ferris wheel stood still as the carnival rides sleep late into the afternoon. The sunset was still hours away as were the lights and the laughter and the screams. The Fairgrounds had opened at noon, but only the agricultural contestants and livestock were found before dusk.
I was a boy with his lamb surrounded by silent giants. We hadn’t passed a single person during our walk today. We were on our way back to the show tent when I spotted her. I had heard her before I saw her. In a cement band shell at a considerable distance a wee moppet in a red dress with a head full of red brown curls sang out with alarming clarity and volume. There were at least thirty rows of benches in front of the band shell, yet there wasn’t one person in the audience. In fact, I couldn’t see anyone else, anywhere else. There wasn’t even an accompanist. It was just me, Cole, and Little Orphan Annie.
“Tomorrow! . . Tomorrow! . . I love ya tomorrow!” she yodeled. Cole and I stopped and stared for a moment ...
I was walking my lamb “Cole” as I did every afternoon. I had named my lamb after Cole Porter. I was fifteen years old. Cole and I were walking through the deserted grounds of the Maricopa County Fair in Phoenix, Arizona. The ferris wheel stood still as the carnival rides sleep late into the afternoon. The sunset was still hours away as were the lights and the laughter and the screams. The Fairgrounds had opened at noon, but only the agricultural contestants and livestock were found before dusk.
I was a boy with his lamb surrounded by silent giants. We hadn’t passed a single person during our walk today. We were on our way back to the show tent when I spotted her. I had heard her before I saw her. In a cement band shell at a considerable distance a wee moppet in a red dress with a head full of red brown curls sang out with alarming clarity and volume. There were at least thirty rows of benches in front of the band shell, yet there wasn’t one person in the audience. In fact, I couldn’t see anyone else, anywhere else. There wasn’t even an accompanist. It was just me, Cole, and Little Orphan Annie.
“Tomorrow! . . Tomorrow! . . I love ya tomorrow!” she yodeled. Cole and I stopped and stared for a moment ...
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