The tinny echo of brass and the thumping thud of drums reverberate in my head. As they trickle through my body, the child inside of me stirs, remembering bygone parades and years of riding barricades shouting, “Throw me something, Mister.” Now, the kids on the barricades are mine, and I stand back, smiling as my daughters reach as far as their little arms will stretch to catch a teddy bear.

Admittedly, like most children, they do this with some help. As we approach Oyster City Brewing Company, my excited daughters race to the barricade, overlooking the four chairs reserved in front of them. Luckily, their owners are kind retirees from Florida who, after meeting my littles, assure me that the girls’ glee amplifies their delight—they’re more than happy to share their primo real estate. While there’s nothing like experiencing Mardi Gras in Mobile as a child as Eugene Walter famously described, so, too, does nothing reawaken your inner child like witnessing Mardi Gras through the eyes of one.

Age is not a factor in enlivening this youthful exuberance. From the other side of the barricade, I photograph Mannie Brinkman, a Mobilian who has been attending Mardi Gras since age 2, which means he’s clocked over 85 years’ worth of parades in his life, and on this night, he’s with his daughter and granddaughter visiting from Kentucky. His granddaughter will attend the MOT [Mystics of Time] ball for the first time as a birthday gift.

At the ball, she is dazzled by the tableau resplendent with ornate décor and glittering fairy lights. She feasts on a spread of delectable cuisine before twirling onto the dance floor, feeling like Cinderella, a woman who will ultimately kick off her shoes when the clock strikes midnight. But by no means is the revelry over.

On Joe Cain Sunday, one of the more unique evolutions of Mobile’s Mardi Gras, the people don quirky costumes that retell Mobile’s history and take to the streets. Walking in the parade is like a three-MoonPie sugar rush. The beads leaving my hand symbolize a momentary spark of connection when I make eye contact with someone and they snatch the throw out of the air.

We walk on. A small, tearful child sits on the side of the barricade supported by her mother. She has no beads. I grab a necklace of translucent purple flowers, run over, drape them over the girl’s neck, and say, “Every beautiful princess needs some jewelry,” and run away to rejoin the procession. It’s Mardi Gras. Everyone deserves to be happy.

And that’s exactly what I witness. Whether holding my daughters’ hands or walking through the streets looking for a moment to capture or dancing through them in a parade, it’s the joy. It’s the presence. Nobody is looking at their phones or texting. Everyone is right there, together, seeing the same things, laughing at the same Comic Cowboy signs, and dancing to the same Blow House Brass Band jams.

And while the music will echo in my mind, this camaraderie, this collective presence will be the song in my heart until next year when we meet again.