You’ve been. The County Fair. That dusty, hot, smelly slice of life. You’ve jumped over the puddles where a hose leaked. You’ve stepped in various varieties of colored poop. You’ve seen the proud 4-H kids leading their steers, goats, pigs around. All of them with a checked shirt and a big number tacked to their chest. Behind them, you’ve seen their moms carrying all of the brushes and spray bottles and hair spray with hope splayed across their faces that this whole venture will turn out well for their kid. A blue ribbon. Maybe their picture in the paper. You’ve been in the exhibit hall to see all of the projects. The oil paintings of Pac-man and wolves and hummingbirds. The draw bridges built out of craft sticks. The jars of jelly and the purple and blue quilts. You’ve eaten the funnel cakes with powdered sugar that turns into a sweet silkiness that makes your napkin stick to your fingers. Just try and shake it loose. The long ears of corn dripping with butter and not quite shucked. The homemade lemonade with the little lemon wedges and, most times, an insect or two floating alongside them. You’ve seen the kids looking to spend their spending money. Meet boys. Feel grown up. They travel in packs and stand awkwardly at corners. They laugh too loud and yell across the clearings at friends to be noticed. They are defiant and needy and young. You’ve seen the super important guy running around with a clip board and a badge. This thing ain’t happening without him. He’ll guarantee you of that if you ask. Don’t. It will take a minute. But, he’ll also tell you where to go to watch the costume contest for goats or where the first aid tent is if your kid gets bitten by a bee or a rabbit or anything else. So, maybe he’s right. You’ve seen that family that looks a little down on their luck. Three or four kids. One of them named Blaze or Chance and a troublemaker. “Blaze stop it.” “Blaze get down from there.” “Blaze leave your damn sister alone.” You’ve seen them all share the same turkey leg and oversized soda. You’ve had a fleeting thought to buy each of those children their own ice cream cone but then didn’t. You don’t want to come off weird. You’ve ran into old friends and shook their hands and hugged their necks and felt the sweat on the back of their t-shirts. You’ve talked about mutual friends and how much the kids are growing. How much things cost and the weather. One of you ended the conversation by saying you need to get to the exhibit hall to see someone’s prize winning pumpkin or squash or batch of cookies. You’ve reached the end of your desire to see anything else and had someone in your group beg to go to the carnival. Books of tickets and cheap stuffed animals and an old peeling ferris wheel that looks magic in the dusk when the lights come on. You’ve stood there looking up at the laughing couples with their faces a blur against the twilight sky and felt lucky. Lucky to be a human. Lucky that you knew enough about life to be there. Lucky. Lucky. You’ve turned in a slow circle to take it all in. You’ve searched the crowd for those you’ve been to the fair with in the past. Your parents when they were still alive. Your children when they were toddlers holding your hand with an intensity you miss in your deepest heart. Your best friend from high school who always shared her lip gloss. You’ve gone home with a little bit of a sunburn, dirty tennis shoes and a restored heart. Lucky. Lucky.