When the great day final arrived, Chezky would be wound up like a spring, ready to jump into action — or to spiral out of control

IT’Sthe best of days, it’s the worst of days.

Chezky looooved Purim. A whole year round he obsessed over it. “Mommy, this year I’m being a policeman.” (This was on Succos.) “And I want handcuffs — real ones, and a real gun, too.”

“And, Mommy, when are you buying me my police costume?” (on Chanukah.) “And don’t forget you promised me a real gun.” (Love how his ideas become my promises.)

“How many people can I give this year?” (This, before Tu B’Shevat.) “How much nosh?” The questions were peppered with urgency, a need to know now exactly what will be and how much and where and when.

“We’re not discussing Purim in Cheshvan, Chezkel.” I’d struggle for patience.

“Yeah, but when will we discuss it? And I need sunglasses for my police costume. Can we discuss it tomorrow? And can we give all my friends each a Coke?”

All his friends. That was the saddest part. Because there weren’t too many friends. Which didn’t stop Chekzy from agonizing over a giving list and, more importantly, a receiving list. “So do you think Mr. Drazin from down the block will give me back? Huh, Ma? Should I put him on the list? Can we drive across town to Mr. Carlton who was my English teacher back in first grade? He gave great treats!”

When the great day final arrived, Chezky would be wound up like a spring, ready to jump into action — or to spiral out of control.