Sue Gano

Mama was dressed to the nines that day when my class went to the zoo and she came along to herd the first graders from exhibit to exhibit. She put her hair in pink, fluffy curlers the night before and in the morning gleaming waves of chocolate brown appeared as if by magic. She donned a white skirt with pink flowers and stole some shoes from my big sister’s closet. “No one needs to know,” Mama shared ,and I giggled as if I were a party to a crime.

We walked hand in hand, her and I at the end of the two lines my teacher had put us in. We heard lions roar, their sounds cracking in the spring air and watched polar bears dive into their pool to claim their afternoon fish. Our last stop was at the petting zoo, where a goat started to chew on the hem of my Mama’s skirt while my classmates laughed.

Upon leaving Mama bought me a key chain in the shape of a bright red elephant. I planned on putting the key to my diary on it and hiding it in my bedside table where I was sure no one would find it.

Fifty-three years later it still resides in my bedside table, albeit a different one, hidden amongst the Kleenex, my writing pad and eyeglasses. The diary key long-gone, the memory of that day spent with Mama as fresh as yesterday.