When the Magic Disappears

             When I had conquered every ride of the amusement park, inhaled the salty air at the beach, I came to a realization. All of the thrill, the fun, and the beauty had disappeared from Coney Island. I had failed to see Coney Island in a positive light from then on. But a vibrant Coney Island was still in my mind. 
             I remember the knots starting to form in my stomach as my sister asked me to go on the Cyclone with her and the slight flush on my cheeks when I shook my head but my sister made me go on the ride anyway. I remember the nervousness pulsing through my small body as I stared at my sister. We waited for the ride to start.  I remember the anticipation I sensed slipping into me as the roller coaster slowly went up, up, up. I remember the way my stomach dropped and twisted and turned as the ride did and the rush of relief I felt when I picked up my stomach along with my shoes at the end of the ride; I realized that it was much better than I thought it would be. I remember my bare feet coated with sand and then washed away by the cool, salty water as my siblings and I played at the beach.  Our shrieks and loud laughter filled the air; they synchronized with our splashes appearing like the only noises present. I remember being confined to the shore to keep us from drowning. 
            The waves and the wind entered as I inhaled, and exited as I exhaled. I remember our search for small splendid shells in our quest to seek treasure in a ton of trash, and the way my flip-flops absorbed the salty water as my family prepared to leave the beach. Finally, I remember the moment of quiet bliss filling my tired little body as I rested in the bus moving away from Coney Island.  It became small enough to fit in my mind.
             I sat in a daze, inhaling this memory once more. This was a place I could no longer see now. I then exhaled, eliminating the pleasure of the little things I experienced as a child at Coney Island. I now saw Coney Island as it really was when I re-visited, the way it’s always been. It was a ghost town, where the people walked down the street with no hope and nowhere to go, where the wind blew on my skin, making me shiver.
             It was where I heard the creaks that the Cyclone made as it came closer to its collapse. The sand on the beach stuck to my skin. I saw shards of beer bottles and cigarette buds that I did not notice as a child. My body became infested with the stench of Coney Island. I could not wait to wash off when I got home. How could anybody, even a child – especially a child – genuinely enjoy such a place? The only thing that I had learned from Coney Island is that it is a place where I will never take my future children, if I have children.*
            Since then, I have felt sorry for magicians. What is it like for magicians to see the audience’s amazement, when pulling a rabbit from a hat, already aware of its not so magical methods? What does the astonishment mean to the magicians who perform such tricks as a routine? Could they ever be awed like the audience is or are they limited to magic’s technicalities? Have magicians lost more or gained more from mastering their craft to the point when the magic disappears?
             *I guess I do want to have kids. But, as I say about a lot of things, it depends on my life trajectory. This isn’t really necessary, but oh well.
           – Jacqueline Retalis