the people of France stormed the Bastille prison to arm themselves to fight for their freedom?”
“Wow,” I said. “We should celebrate this momentous anniversary.”
“It so happens that I have just now scheduled a picnic with your father in Holliday Park.”
She never stopped trying, my mom.
I pushed against the couch and stood up. Together, we cobbled together some sandwich makings
and found a dusty picnic basket in the hallway utility closet.
It was kind of a beautiful day, finally real summer in Indianapolis, warm and humid—
the kind of weather that reminds you after a long winter
that while the world wasn’t built for humans, we were built for the world.
Dad was waiting for us, wearing a tan suit, standing in a handicapped parking spot typing away on his handheld.
He waved as we parked and then hugged me. “What a day,” he said.
“If we lived in California, they’d all be like this.” “Yeah, but then you wouldn’t enjoy them,” my mom said.
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