by Howard Hain

Yesterday my address may as well have been Sesame Street.

Returning to our one-bedroom apartment in Union City, New Jersey, after three nights at my mother’s house for the Thanksgiving weekend, my daughter had one thing in mind: “Park.”

A two-year old can get quite repetitive. Off we went.

We chose the playground on the other end of town in order to lengthen the walk. Francesca rode in the carriage, looking back over her shoulder at us and saying “park” at the sight of every tree, child, or basketball.

She sat in every swing, slid down every slide, and climbed every rung. She played so hard she hardly even fought us when we said it was time to go.

The pizza guy cut her slice into tiny pieces. Francesca ate all but the crust, bobbing her head up and down with every bite.

Next stop, the bakery.