Floral Pattern

During a walk down South Street this evening, a young mother of some Asian descent walked in my direction on the same side of the street. In her left hand, she held a bouquet of red roses, and in her right, she held the hand of her little girl. The little girl was purposefully not walking straight, leaning her entire weight lazily to the side and putting great strain on her mother. The mother was resigned to the weight and didn't force her child upright. Her face showed quiet fatigue that contrasted remarkably with the joyful bloom of flowers that she carried.

A couple blocks later, a gang of punks on bicycles too small for them rode by in a line down the street, purposely screeching their tires and laughing raucously at their own gall and coolness. A middle-aged black man in a ragged hoodie walking in my direction-- again on the same side of the street-- glared at them and cursed their youthful stupidity under his breath. He also carried a bouquet of flowers under his arm, though these were multi-colored, not all roses, and not all red. Also, his other hand was without child, and he walked with a loping gait.

Another couple blocks later, a young white man perhaps in his thirties, tall, lean, with square glasses rushed passed me in the opposite direction-- and still on the same side of the street. He was in a great hurry and walked with stiff legs, unable to take the time to bend them between steps. He also carried a bouquet of flowers in his hand.

It occurred to me suddenly that I had just walked by three individuals within the span of 4 city blocks carrying bouquets of flowers and in various states of rush and mood. It only took about another half-second for it to register in my brain that tonight was the eve of St. Valentine's Day.

A few hours later, on my own way back home, guess what I carried in my hand?

A bag of green grapes. Patterns are meant to be broken.