Memories are made of these

Esther so wished that her mum could see the changing seasons. See snowflakes fall from the sky, a rainbow that arched their world or even the size of a elephant. Her mum, however knew no different for wasn't the darkness her birth-right but that because of somebody else! Least said about that maybe!

She went about her day in their little town where folk spent their days in shoe-factories, worked the land or served in shops with high counters and bulging shelves.

Early morning, after Jo had been served his first mug of tea (usually as he sat in bed with a dingy scarf wrapped round his forhead) she would escape to her normal world.

Down to the corner shop, so called even though it sat practically central in their long road. A road that seemed to stretch forever. Lifes blood passed through their town in the form of lorries and cars heading North or South of their world. Couldn't her mum hear that world in a way that we with all her faculties cannot; often not seeing what is there right in front of our noses; until someone points it out of course!

On with her hand-me-down coat that someone had kindly donated and then slip on her shoes; that often had holes in the soles so all seasons would touch her toes.
Down to Mr Underwood's who sold fruit and veg (hardy stuff displayed outside on tilting shelves or sacks on the ground) next to his sturdy black bike.

He was a man who whisltled but didn't swear; apart from the incidental word that was out of his mouth before he had time to stop it. He didn't wear his heart on his sleeve. Just listened to his customers of the days tales of holidays as well as of the hatched, matched or sadly dispatched.

His shop, though small, held the most important of needs. Glass bottles containing gob stoppers, coconut mushrooms licquorice sticks or toffees. He would stand on his little steps in order to reach up and draw the selected bottle of dentists dream down. After weighing on scales, that stood on his low wooden counter he would carefully pour them into a brown paper bag; ready for consumption once outside his store.

It seemed that such a life as theirs then would go on forever with their corner shop taking pride of place as the decades slipped quietly away.
This shop was opened from about eight in the morning until about six in the evening; with no break at mid-day. This state of affairs was only achieved by the support of his quiet wife Margaret. She to was discreet and cautious as to what she would say. But her eyes always very knowing.

Having put her grocery into her cloth bag, paid for with pound shillings and pence usually but sometimes on tick, Esthers mum would count her steps to the shop door. It would tinkle a tune as she opened it. Then over to where she left her dog Rex. A heinz 57 variety type of dog who was as good a guide dog as she needed for where she needed to go in her close knit town. A most faithful of friend who watched her like a hawk and was constantly there to support her.

Next over to the corner shop opposite where she would purchase her basics and Jo's essential poison fodder to.
Esther could never forget how the kindly shop owners, Mr and Mrs Jones never judged them just as the Underwoods didn't judge them.

Then with her purchases sorted, paid for and bagged it was time for her return journey with her shopping, now in her tartan trolley along with the drink.

Often Esthers beloved ginger and white cat Timmy would follow her down the road behind the dog and the trolley that jingled and rattled as it was pulled along by her whistling/singing mum.
Somehow she knew how to avoid metal dustbins, Jo drew their fire in the hearth on winter mornings, with a lid from a bin such as those.
Their road, though dead at the end, carried the dust-cart, the coal lorry, the gypsy who sold pegs, the pack man who tried to get others in debt as well as the man who sharpened knives- with a contraption fixed to his bike and then there was Syd the postman who carried her mums braille books to her.... and so all there journeys moved slowly on!