[this is a solitary endeavour]

Jack Clancy's ginger and grey roughage dabbed his cheeks and chin with frank goodwill. So approachable was he, that the breeze spread piss scent of his clothes couldn't taint your encounter. Mornings, Monday to Saturday, he was sat on the footbridge over the River Lee. Sunday he was endearing himself to the Lord at St. Finbarr's Cathedral. His workday seat was an upturned fruit crate, the years broke the bite of harsh splinters. Between the stubby throb of his arthritic fingers he rattled the wooden spoons. Frenetic, the pain of his eighty years dribbled from the corner of his mouth as spittle and froth. Then, it went down to his chin. Toothless, slobbering and days numbered in bold, he clattered an Irish tune with additional thuds on the box seat. He'd been a wild rover for many's the year, and soon the young men would put him in the ground.

Sinead's pinwheel was in the shape and colour of a sunflower. Its spinning pistil bore the earthy brown of her own eyes. Together they formed a dandy triplet, the prettiest browns Eire had ever seen. She toddled with her mother's hand holding hers for dear life. With the drizzle's mild spite distant in her mind, she tugged her coat's hood back to see old Jack Clancy on the bridge. Ignoring the mucky soup passing below, they took their first steps onto the bridge. The little girl tugged her mother towards Cork's precious performer. "Mam, wow!" little Sinead said squeezing mam's hand. Mam, Aileen to everybody else, fumbled between the torn imitation leather of her dainty purse to pull out a chunky two euro coin. "Put it in the hat, will you, so," she said with pride. Generosity was a grand thing to teach she felt.

Mr Clancy's sky blue sparklers matched the baby girl's smile for beauty. They'd both remember the moment until death took it from them.