Parade Day

 

Parade Day

A short story by

Stephanie S. Sommers

It was cold that morning, it always was in November, though some were milder than others. This particular morning was just brisk enough that a jacket was a welcome addition to the wardrobe but not so cold that it induced pain or distraction. There was plenty enough distraction with all the holiday revelers anticipating the day full of celebration and shopping and joy. The sidewalks were crowded as they always were, but even more because of the parade that would start soon.

He checked his watch and realized he would have to hustle to thread his way through the growing crowd to get to his desired watching location. It wasn’t far now, maybe a few blocks, but with street vendors and extra bodies filling in the concrete and spilling onto the asphalt, it might be a struggle.

If he was honest there were unseen struggles as well. He did his best to ignore those memories and twinges of guilt. It should get easier as time passed, but he had to admit it was as sharp now as it was all those parade days ago. Decades of parade days had gone by, and he’d been here for every one of them, always watching, always looking for resolution or completion or he wasn’t even sure what after all this time.

He found his place finally, and the sound of the crowd was changing around him. Children were calling out, some waving at marching bands or people on floats, at balloon handlers or even the balloons themselves. There was excitement like a flavour on the air, he could taste sweet Cracker Jacks on the back of his tongue. The sharp cold, still comfortable but more noticeable now that he’d stopped moving, made his senses feel sharpened. He let that illusion carry him.

As a boy he’d come to the parade each year with his father who had allowed him a small treat before the parade started with the promise of lunch after even though they always had breakfast to start the day. It was their secret, candy in the morning, their tradition. He slipped his hand into his coat pocket and felt the small plastic pocket clip, not sure if what he felt was comfort or nostalgia or longing. The sound of the crowd changed again.

He counted the balloons, after the third he started to drift along the edge of the sidewalk. He looked over to the side and saw the alley mouth approaching, always there, always lurking. The parade dates changed, the floats and balloons changed and updated, even the buildings along the street had been replaced over the years, but that alley remained.

Hands in his pockets, fingers of one hand gripping the plastic prize that was now considered vintage, he stepped closer to the break between the buildings and was transported in memory to his past.

He’d finished his candy and opened the paper wrapped toy, not very excited by the clip with a dove on it, he was hoping for the paper eagle plane or a parachuted soldier. His father laughed and promised they could try again with another box. He was distracted then by the balloons and turned to watch one go by. He heard his father call out to him and when he turned his father was gone. He looked around the corner into the alley, but his father wasn’t there. He turned back to the street and pushed his way to the curb, still no sign nor sight of his father. He stood rooted to the spot, parade and watchers flowing by him unseen.

While he had been unaware of his surroundings, others had been aware of him. Soon two young men in uniforms were asking him questions. He gripped the plastic clip tightly in his hand as he answered their questions, the dove embossed clip was sharp against his fingers. He told the officers his name, his father’s name, his address. He was ten years old and not a little kid anymore who rode his father’s shoulders to watch the parade. He explained the route he could take home, that his father had been with him and now was not. He eyed the alley warily as he spoke to the officers.

He had come to the parade every year after, dove clip in his pocket. The parade had taken his father and he had prayed as a child that it would return him. It hadn’t. He still came to the parade each November, to the spot he had last seen his father, the last place anyone had ever seen his father. He knew now that his father could never come back from wherever he had gone. He stepped into the alley.

The sound of the crowd and the marching bands receded slightly. He took one more step and brought the clip from his pocket, looking down at the dove worn now from years in his pockets. He thought he heard someone call his name and he turned, looking up. He started to run.

 

“Mama, look what I found,” the little girl tugged at her mother’s hand.

“Where did you get that?” her mother asked. “Don’t pick trash up in the street, baby, it’s dirty.” She picked up her tiny girl and looked at the object, a piece of plastic that might have been a bookmark or something, it looked like it had once had a bird on it, it was very worn. “Let’s put that in the trash, OK?” The woman carried her girl toward a can on the corner. When her girl protested, she promised they could stop at a store on the way home from the parade.