Parade day, a day like today, meant bright uniforms in red, green, orange and yellow. It meant fields with chalk lines, and bands and drums. It meant pennants, birds circling high in the air, too high to be named. And sweets that were handed out in small packets. We searched for the most coveted one: a green and white wrapper with, I think, a strawberry on it.
That was then. Parades now mean Ursula le Guin's story, 'The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas'.
I rarely brag about my son, but this piece of grossness has to be shared.
We were at the bus stop a little while ago waiting for his school bus. I noticed, with horror, that he had not only failed to koplichify after his breakfast, and thus had breadcrumbs at the corner of his mouth, but also seemed to have forgotten to wash his face. Sleep goo at the corner of his eyes.
I took it off while he squirmed and struggled, and showed it to him on my nail.
"Looks like dalia," he said.
"What will happen if we cook and eat it?"