Cracked Window

Twenty children clutching flowers stroll the sidewalk beneath my window. No older than six and with teachers in tow, they stop, wave, and smile at me, the white-haired crank a half-century older.

I open the window, and they all call out “Happy May Day!”

The sidewalk and street are dusted with wind-blown petals, whites and pinks from cherry and pear trees, like snow flakes that never melt.