It was Independence Day and Ainsley’s candy bag was half-full before it started to pour. Her flight from the parade route was swift, as were the excuses.
“A pop-up storm. Can’t be helped.”
Parades were simple then. Cornucopias of swag: suckers flung asunder, cracking on impact; children competing for a single piece of sour apple taffy; flyers distributed but not read, damp papers sticking to the streets and bottom of shoes like gum.
Now, amid fear of spiked candy or racy flyers, handouts are disallowed. Gone. Along with trust of our fellow man.
Just one of those things. Can’t be helped.