Perfect Attendance

"Did you see that trophy?"

"Let's ask him about it."

It was a sunny day; we'd just had brunch. I had stuffed myself full of vanilla french toast and was in desperate need of a purging walk. We'd passed where The Who took their famous Union Jack draped picture, and were about to circle the cathedral Suzanne Vega sang about when we saw the guy sitting in his little booth. The two trophies shone in the glare of the midday sun.

"Hello, sir. What's the trophy for?"

"This? Someone just gave it to me."

"What does it say? 'Perfect Attendance.' Is that you?" He nodded.

"Can we take your picture with the trophy?" He nodded.

We walked the rest of the way home to finish our long weekend chores, scrubbing the bathtub and hanging laundry out to dry, then put records on the turntable and danced around the cleaned carpet, digging our heels in, making ourselves known to whoever might be downstairs (though we suspect it's been vacant since our last neighbor's passing).

Perfect attendance. We try to be present. We try to be aware of where we are and why we are here, now, today.

© Zan McQuade. All rights reserved.