When I was five years old and we lived on Princewood Avenue I woke up one morning, looked out my window, and there was a parade. I saw cars decorated with streamers and shaving cream. The neighbor lady down the street sat on the hood of her husband’s car wearing a funny costume with feathers and scarves and bright lipstick. She waved as they drove slowly by. I recognized her daughter and another son from the upper grades at my school. The girl twirled a baton and the boy carried an instrument, possibly a shiny brass horn, in which he made terrible marching music. The family hound wore a bucket hat tied under his doggie chin; he high stepped to the beat. Bringing up the rear was their youngest son sitting on top of the back seat, waving from an open convertible. His face swollen from what my mother told me was the medication.
A few months later I learned he had passed away.
Just yesterday I programmed parade music on Pandora. I wanted to remember that impromptu parade for a sick boy.