Mrs. Nash’s Ashes

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My two favorite things about the Gadsley Broccoli Festival parade are that the procession is short, so I will be able to hear the marching band playing “Tusk” behind me the entire time, and that someone has given me a silky Parade Grand Marshal sash and a flower crown with broccoli florets tucked into the arrangement.

“Look!” I call to Hollis from my place in the back of the white convertible as we wait in the staging area. I point to my head. “Do you get it?”

“No,” he says. He’s standing a few feet away on the sidewalk, his arms crossed over his chest, frown firmly in place. For a man who got laid not two hours ago, he sure looks grumpy again. It’s actually kind of impressive how dedicated he is to being a curmudgeon.