These were cold damp winter days - not cold enough to snow, but cold enough to chill you right through to the bone, with a damp mist in the air. She gathered her children up closely and braved the weather for she knew if she did not, they would not eat that day. They trudged down Greenpoint Avenue in hopes of soup that actually had a taste of stock to it, but if not at the very least let it be warm. Yes, let it be warm.
She didn't recall exactly when life had become a search for warmth, she did remember when the cold had settled in permanently though. It was the end of August, when the bottle had taken the last of life that Arles had to give. From that point, the struggle became part of their daily routine. A routine whose only comfort was held in its predictability.
Life had once been kind to them. They had been young and in love. They had traveled the country and played music together. They had thought that to invest in a future was to not live in the present. So live they did. When this country seemed to confine them, they headed to Amsterdam and fanned out across Europe from there. They ended up their romp in Paris. And that's when she found out that she was pregnant - with Lola their sweet girl.
She knew that people would not believe the songs they once sung, but she also knew if they didn't get to the soup kitchen by noon, there'd be slim pickins.
She folded her head down resolutely against the cold and pulled her children in each close by her side and pressed forward.
NOTE: In case you hadn't noticed, the above little blurb was a fiction piece. The only truth to it was the bitter damp cold day that greeeted us in our various dances in and out of the mist today. The background on the picture above can be found HERE.