Ritual

The soft toy dragon was dangling rather precariously, its fate of meeting the floor dependent on the boy’s clutch on it. Indeed, its owner did not seem to warrant much confidence.

The boy was rubbing his bleary eyes as he stumbled on. He had, in one hand, the helm of his mother’s skirt while in the other, the tail of the toy. In fact, as the boy trudged on with unsteady steps, the toy dragon swinging dangerously close to the ground.

The boy could not be more than four years of age. But yet there he was, early in the morning, walking to school with his favorite action hero bag and his favorite soft toy dragon. Such was the daily ritual of the mother, the boy and the dragon.