Lionheart

Last month, I pulled into my driveway to see the trash can cattywampus on the sidewalk, lid askew. This is as it should have been. The truck came by that morning in a weekly event my two-year-old son and three-year-old daughter observe with the devotion of a religious rite. The rumble of the engine is a call to worship at this particular branch of the Church of Toddler Obsessions, and they run to the window to shout their praises — “Twuck! BIG, BIG twuck!” — as it loads up our refuse.

But that day, I froze when I saw the empty can. I realized in that moment that the kids had watched our friendly neighborhood sanitation guys haul off something very special.