I’ve never been one to watch parades on television. Even this year, I left the room on Thanksgiving once the television came on. Saturday morning, after a trip to the grocery store, I walked to get my weekly blueberry muffin. This time, instead of returning back to my apartment I headed to meet friends at a prime viewing spot for Durham’s Christmas parade. Until Friday afternoon I didn’t even know that there was a parade, but it wasn’t as if I had alternate plans.

It was sunny, cold, and windy and there was a helicopter overhead that made quite a lot of noise, but my friends’ little guy wasn’t bothered by any of it. He was in his coat and standing in his wagon. And when he got out of the wagon he ran a few laps around a ramp for the building we stood in front of, hair all askew from being under a winter cap. Some of the other children were less enthused about sitting in the cold, but he had the best time of anyone there. The loud cars, the drums, the people, everything—he was smiling and bouncing in his wagon the whole time. People in the parade were drawn to that happiness and that created a virtuous cycle adding even further to his mirth. Then to top it off, there were fire trucks at the end of the parade. Fire trucks are his favorite and he wasn’t about to let a cold wind interfere with his enjoyment of their lights and sirens. I haven’t experienced that level of joy in months.

I could reflect more on the parade—my thoughts about the marching bands, the different civic organizations, two guys walking with a banner (which is what their banner announced), the Mesoamerican dance troupe, or the people handing out tins of sardines—but it was really just about watching the excitement on the little guy’s face.