He didn’t think about his former life very often.
It was just back there, sitting there, what was done was done. He never dwelled for too long on the fact that his dear wife had stepped out in front of a car, or the day they closed the factory and his job went with it, or losing the house, or the endless attempts to find work. He concentrated on the life that was his. The daily business of walking the streets, begging, seeking shelter, and taking care of the few things he owned.
Of course, there had been happy times. Although her short life meant they’d had no children, they shared a good life for a while. He had enjoyed his work, and had several friends they would spend time with. But this all seemed to be so long ago that it had all faded. The one time that he considered to be his happiest was when, at the age of eight, his father would give him rides in the wheelbarrow. It was such a precious memory and so powerful. His father would work in the garden at every opportunity, so the rides were many. He would climb in and clutch at the sides, while his dad would race around the back yard, at what back then he considered to be very high speeds. He would have to hang on for all he was worth to avoid being tossed out.
The night was very cold with a wind that howled through the streets. When he arrived at his favourite alley it was empty. He’d learned to ignore the stench of rotting vegetables that came from the skip that took the restaurant’s garbage. If anything, being close to it, the bulk of it served as a barrier against the bitter blast that swept through the tunnel. He set down his belongings and prepared for the night. He tightened all the buttons on his tattered clothes and climbed into his old sleeping bag. He then sat for a while with his back against the wall.
He closed his eyes and gripped the sides of the wheel barrow. Delirium took hold and a private ecstasy engulfed him. The down-and-out sat smiling.
It never failed.