May Day is not exactly a holiday around here. It gets lost in what I call the Spring Stress season (when the lure of summer is close, the irritation of homework is at its peak and the complicated sports schedules make every day feel like a race to get here or there on time, even when only one kid is doing just one sport).
As a child, however, I loved May Day. Leaving flowers on someone’s doorstep and running away? That’s an eight-year-old’s dream.
I don’t think I’ve left flowers on anyone’s doorstep in at least three decades. Today, however, I will. I’ve chosen my new, elderly, very charming neighbors as the recipients. I will enlist the kids. And we will pick flowers from the garden, ring the doorbell and dash around the corner, giggling.
And maybe, just maybe, I’ll feel like I’m eight years old again.