Jane’s kids ran home by themselves, their pockets full of Jolly Rancher candies and plastic beads, while we folded the camp chairs and hauled them up Oak Street. The altitude (or maybe the festivity) was making me tired. “Remember when we used to have a float?” I said.My dad laughed. “Your mom loved that sort of stuff,” he said.“What? Parades?” I asked.“She loved using a glue gun,” said my father.“Who doesn’t?” said Jane.“She loved pasting crepe paper onto poster boards,” said my father. Jane and I exchanged glances: it was rare for our dad to talk about our mom.“She did?” I prompted.“She loved modeling clay,” he said. He nodded soberly, then said, “Well, see you later. Told Bill I’d stop in for coffee.” He turned on his heel and strode away from us, toward the Episcopal church, raising his arm in farewell.“Who’s Bill?” I said.“The new pastor. He’s young,” said Jane. “How come I don’t remember Mom using modeling clay?”“She’d make us snakes, little snakes out of clay,”
