Obstacle

A descriptive piece influenced by a street fleuriste I saw on New Year's Eve

My mom sells flowers on street corners. Day and night, in fact time isn't a conception for her at all. Nor is weather. To her nothing matters but her job, and the money she makes off of it. To this day, I thought she loved her work more than anything. I thought she loved to see the mixture of colors and inhale the harmonizing scent. She prepared those bouquets so daintily, I thought it was tempting for her to do so. I though she found her job enjoyable, delightful rather. She worked at new year eves too and I told myself that's how much she likes her job. At the eves I sat down beside her to spend it together, we lit up a fire and watched the excited customers come by. My mom always managed them to buy less and pay more and none of them noticed that, along the boast of rush the night brought. This year again, I went and sat next to my mom. The weather was cold, our fire concise. My mother wrapped me up in a blanket and she shivered. So weather was a concept, an obstacle. My mother asked me the time as she looked around for more customers, she told it would be the last bit of money we'd make this year, she prayed we still had time. So time was a concept, an obstacle. Then in the very last 10 seconds, a hopeless romantic came running for flowers. His eyes caught the roses but he didn't make it on time, his body shivering and crooked. I cheered as we entered the new year. The romantic cried as his dream of announcing his love at midnight broke. And I saw my mom shed a few tears for she'd lost a customer to bad weather and late time. It wasn't her job my mother so deeply admired.