My Dearest Coulrophobia,
Whaaaaats uuuuup, my colorful, curly tormentor. How has life been treating you?
It’s been years, and now I don’t want to give you the wrong impression, but… well, sometimes, I don’t even think about you anymore, at least not since my daughter’s best friend died. That was sad. She was so young and beautiful, with so much of life ahead of her, and she and I shared our affiliation with you, but then I think to myself, “Why didn’t you stick around after the funeral?”
Where were you when I became a grandmother? I wasn’t one bit afraid on baby girl’s fifth birthday when one of your many garish minions appeared with its slimy fist full of balloons. Nope. I just lightly grimaced as he handed the most precious person in the world his helium filled hell rat and danced away. I didn’t even care when another of your cronies came to work a month later. In fact, I even opened the door to my boss’s office for him.
It was, after all, the nice thing to do.
He was a guest.
Still, I miss you. Sometimes I sit back, and I remember the stories my mom used to tell our family about when you were born.
You remember.
It was the sixties; I was three. We were in that new grocery store in downtown Alsip with the banners and the “big deals” on grapes. They had lights and horns with wild attention getting techno sounds grasping at everyone’s sensibilities, including my mother’s.
That is how I ended up alone when your lackey found me standing there, already afraid, already looking around for my salvation. Perhaps that is what he thought he was doing when my mind snapped. Mom said she and that poor little old lady never even saw me coming. One moment Mom was fighting for the juiciest grapes in that shiny new plastic bin, and in the next an ear-piercing scream ran through the crowd like a butcher knife through warm butter. People stood back almost as if to say, “I didn’t do it,” and then in the clearing, she saw me. I was crawling up that little old lady’s leg in my white dress, white stockings, and Mary Janes, and my whites weren’t white anymore.
Just seeing all that blood galvanized my mother into action. She was finally on the way to save me, but by that point, both me and that poor little old lady had broken away from her walker, and we were going down. Your serial killer wannabe looked like he wanted to escape—desperately. Yet, the crowd quickly converged to save me, or maybe it was just that little old lady because she was the one who was screaming. We all got squished together like a bad soup with chunky little bits of purses, shoes, carts, stockings, and one fluffy orange and green wig. It was awful. I dream in black and white, but all my nightmares are in strange shades of orange and green to this day.
Then, the ambulance came, my mother profusely apologized, and I left that brand new grocery store with a shiny new phobia to take to birthday parties, circuses, and grand openings till the end of time, but I guess it didn’t work out that way.
Yes, it was that funeral.
The last time I saw you clearly, I was standing at her gravesite. They called it suicide, and you were the one she was afraid of—you were the one that kept us both on edge, but the real enemy… that was much closer.
My real enemy dug her Mary Janes into that little old lady’s legs and sent her to the hospital.
I wonder what they call a fear of small children.
Anyway, I’ll be taking the King train to “It” land later today, but I know you won’t be there. You’re probably busy with all those pre-menopausal females out there cringing at that bathroom scene. What is this irrational fear of menses? I thought only women feared that monthly visitor.
Oh hey, but there is a thought. What if I developed a fear of irony? Would I fear myself? Would I go insane? What kind of name would my new fear have?
Do you know? If you do, please tell me when you write back. I would love to hear from you. We could reminisce. Mom would love that.
Much love,
Laura
P.S. If you see atychiphobia, tell him I said, “hi.”

Style score for this piece is 100%