The Parade Goes By

Dear Aunt Penny,

Please tell me again that wonderful story about the parade for you and Mom. You know, how the parade was just for both of you, to celebrate your birthdays…

It’s a Sunday so there is extra fuss. Hair needs to be braided, dresses are pressed. No matter, we will ride in the rumble seat to and from church and when we return there will be a parade.

We are good in church. Yes, even me. Why not be good today. There will be cheese dreams for lunch and Shirley Temples too, with two cherries each and extra juice. When you stir it, the juice swirls and paints the inside of the glass red.

After lunch, we race down our long driveway. The gravel crunches under our feet and sprays near the wall of hydrangeas. Their blue blooms are bursting and invite you to come closer where you can hide in their shade, but not today. Today, the parade.

The music is our favorite part. Even when you can’t see beyond the bend in the road, you know it’s coming. The drums purr and roll and the trumpets keep time for the marchers. Everyone marching is very dressed up, even though church is over. And there are so many, many flags. That’s our favorite part, the flags waving for us.

They wave as they pass by our driveway. We cheer and wave back and wish that the parade would slow down now that it’s right here within reach, but the drums keep rolling and the trumpets move the marchers past us. We watch the flags wave until they are out of sight. When we close our eyes, the air is still alive from their whirring.

Back up the driveway we go. There is a beautiful bend here too, like the one on the long road for the parade. Our porch comes into view with its white wicker furniture and plump, inviting cushions. The red barn hides behind the deep green of summer trees and we wonder if the corn is really “knee high” today.

There is sadness in the quiet and stillness the parade leaves behind, but not for long because later there will be cake. Cake with candles to blow out and fireflies to light up the night. When it’s time for bed, I will push my sister up the stairs. Even though we are twins, she is ten minutes older and should be braver and go first.

In loving memory of Penny Brown and for Pat McKean, her twin, “the good one”, who is my wonderful Mom.