The Circus Goes the Way of Buggy and Slide Rule

I am the last generation to reliably attend a circus.

I am the last generation to marvel at the near-naked women twirling on the trapeze, my fingers sticky from cotton candy as the elephants entered, trunk to tail, mounting their platforms.

I am the last generation to watch as the net panels were magically assembled, and the doors to the train full of roar were dropped, and the man in the long tailed coat cracked the whip, and the stripes leaped through the fire ring.

Wooden bleachers and massive nets, massive ropes stretched tight and tied to great iron spikes.

I am the last generation.