Waiting for the Parade

They line the streets in anticipation.
Families and strangers,
they sit in chairs brought for the occasion ,
open their coolers and lunch baskets,
They wear shirts proclaiming
the things they love and the things they hate.
They laugh. They curse the heat. Children play.

Stories are told,
wonderful misremembered stories
fueled by beer and nostalgia and time.
They remember fireworks and strange floats,
fried dough and bee stings.
They remember being together,
and being part.

And so they come for this short hour
that is more than fire engines and bands,
but a reconnecting,
to childhood,
to what was,
what is remembered,
and what more than anything,
is yearned for still.

About this poem

Saturday I got to be a judge in the local Rupert Old Home Days parade. I got there early to prepare, and watched the crowd gather – local folks and people who had come from long distances for this annual rite. It is a bonding thing, these small town parades, far more than a long stream of floats and horses and bands. And you could see it in the people who had come. It was the same kind of energy you see in a family reunion. Joyful. Powerful. Bonding.

The picture was of the crowd gathering. If you want to see pictures of the parade, you can see some here. 

Tom