Once a Year

"Lucas, it's that time of year," his mother's voice trailed off as she stepped into his room, a galvanized steel bucket swinging from one hand, "where's your bucket? I painted it fresh last night."

"I want my old bucket." Lucas replied, his cheeks reddening. "I don't want a new bucket."

"The old bucket had a hole," tweaking the curtains from the window, his mother looked down upon the street below, where she watched families carry various sized buckets; some like the galvanized steel she held while a few children carried plastic sand pails clutched in tiny fists, "we can't have a bucket with a hole."

"I don't want a new bucket, I want my old bucket."

"It can't be helped, son."

Grabbing a stuffed pig from his bed, Lucas turned away from his mother; with his face buried between the stuffie's ears, he sniffed, "It's a stupid bucket."

"What's stupid is this conversation. We don't have time to discuss the merits of which bucket is superior. Understand, young man? Tonight is when we purge the nightmares, so grab your bucket." Taking Lucas by the shoulders, she swiveled him to face her, a smile wrinkling the corners of her eyes, "Go on, grab your bucket. I'll be waiting downstairs. Okay?"

"What's superior mean?"

"Lucas... I'll be downstairs. Grab the bucket."

After his mother left, Lucas stood for a few moments staring at the floor. Taking a deep breath, he walked over to his closet and opened the white paneled door. Catching his eye was the glint of galvanized steel, a freshly painted clown face in primary color stared back at him, but resting next to it, under a shroud of yesterday's dirty clothes, was his old bucket. It was faded plastic, a pale pink instead of the bright red when he first got it, with a quarter sized hole gouged in its side.

Stepping into the closet, Lucas pushed the dirty clothes aside and pushed a finger into the hole of the plastic bucket. A tear slid down his cheek. Reaching out, he grabbed the cold steel of the other bucket, but hesitated. Peeking over his shoulder, he glanced back toward his bedroom door. Still shut. Turning his attention back to the buckets, he giggled.

"Mom?" Lucas yelled from the top of the stairs, "I have to use the potty, I'll meet you at the clearing."

"Okay, dear," his mother called back, "Don't be long, it's almost midnight."

"Okay," he replied, "I'll hurry." Rushing back to the closet, he grabbed both buckets. It took him only a moment to decide which vessel he would choose to carry his nightmares. Nestling the plastic sand pail in the larger steel bucket, he swung it around, laughing.