“Maybe next time, Henry,” I said again and again, loudly. Occasionally, he picked up a single piece of candy that had rolled unassumingly toward his feet, escaping your watchful eye and exaggerated wingspan.
“Make sure you share with the little boy,” the young mother on my other side told her girls a few times when they managed the same feat. “Sharing is very important.” She and I made desperate eye contact. Were you for real?
Your own son, probably a year or two older than Henry, scrounged for a lollipop and offered it to us.
“That’s nice of you, sweetie,” I said in a quieter tone. “But we have enough.”
The funny thing is we ended up next to you at the parade because you reached out when you saw us walking aimlessly from our car to the vague hoard in the distance. You smiled and told us where the parade started and ended, suggested the prime spot. We chatted on and off as we waited for it begin. We really lucked out with the weather today. It’s not too cold at all. Every few minutes, you reported the time. Twelve more minutes. Nine minutes.