May Day

On Sunday the kids grabbed their toys and gear, and we headed outside to enjoy some family time. In less than ten minutes, though, helmets were ripped off and the skateboard and scooter were abandoned and left upended on the concrete, wheels spinning.

My daughter had begun to pick wildflowers--tiny daisies, minuscule grape hyacinths, and the smallest purple sweet peas--to toss, one by one, into the canal. She was watching them float lazily away when my son came upon the remains of a crayfish. We poked and prodded the shell and teased each other with the tiny little claw.

We found a bird's nest, empty, nestled in the grass.

I told the children that it was May day, and my girl began to dance round and round a flag pole on the edge of the canal. The forsythia tangled around its base and the damp, cloudy air was heady with the scent of freshly mown grass and ozone.

The rain soon drove us in with the bird's nest cradled gently inside a skateboard helmet. A small bouquet of flowers was left idly among a circle of stones.

I will always remember my children that day as they danced and laughed around a flag pole that flew no colors.

------------------------------------------------------------

"Heaven help the roses when the bombs begin to fall." -- Ron Miller