My son Laszlo turned seventeen so I gave myself the day off from running Favor in honor of his birthday. I did, however, go for an actual run. As has been my routine of late I jogged around the golf course then headed south towards Eastwoods Park. I walked around the park, wandered over secret bridges, watched a kitten play. Then I walked home slowly, enjoying the sun on my legs.
On a street called Liberty I passed two children, a boy and a girl, playing a game. They looked to be about five years old. The little girl was parked on one side of the street, sitting obediently on a small scooter (“staying in her vehicle,” I realized). The boy was on the other side, and had set up a little shop, with various items placed on the seat of a chair.
“Do you have any paper towels?” the girl called across the street.
“Let me check,” the clerk responded.
Curbside delivery, of course.
Every year I bake a cake for Laszlo’s birthday and ask him how he would like it decorated. One year it was Mordor, another it was a hammer and sickle. This year he was understandably lacking in enthusiasm. “I don’t care,” he mumbled.
So he gets a COVID cake. We will eat it in the backyard with a friend he hasn’t seen in person in a month. I am terribly grateful to her father for permitting this to happen; it is the only thing Laszlo really wanted.