Fregan Fortitude

The delicious warmth of an early March day engaged the smell of melting snow that slathered the asphalt with slush. It was 3:32 in the afternoon. Sparse-few clouds lacking much structure, languished tiredly along the horizon while the white sun contently thrived through the bluescape. Miniature creeks formed between boulevards of snow and ice-rimmed outcroppings jutted delicately out to sparkle with the meandering light. A woman pushed her shopping cart out of London Drugs, talking absentmindedly with a friend whilst fixing her maternal eye on her son who clung blithely on the outer edge. Vigilantly did she mount and descend from the curb.

"Ahh-hhhh-hhh," the prepubescent boy with fair hair supplied his company with incoherent noise to make his voice jump with the rough pavement, which jaunted the vehicle with the velocity of his mother's push. Laughter peeled from him. His tiny red fingers curled into miniscule fists and he grappled the thin bars.

She walked past. She had only given the group a simple glance and hadn't seen the boy's face while he laughed, but she felt his unbridled pleasure elate her. A bag of flour and a loaf of bread sat cradled in her arms. An older gentleman passed by. His toque was pylon-orange and rolled up far enough that it only covered a quarter of his ear. His jacket wore wrinkles as deep as his face and his jeans were faded and tapered. She looked to his eyes and smiled, but he stared at her unintentionally exposed midriff and failed to acknowledge her friendly glance. Discomfiture only lasted momentarily in the girl's mind. The boy's laughter resonated, and her spirit blushed with it.

. . . . . . . . . .

Music of the moment: Sketches of Lovers Rolling in the Grass by No Birds