Still, he never gave up his crib, installing it on top of his squeaking
vehicle, and filling it to its tattered brim with a rainbow of
offerings. At night, he stowed it under the cart, locking it behind its
two crumbling doors, among the unsold merchandise.
With sunrise, my grandfather would exit the house and head towards the
miniature plot of garden adjoining it. He would cross the patch,
stepping carefully on a pebbled path in its midst. Then, sighing but
never stooping, he would drive his green trolley - a tall and stout and
handsome man, fair-skinned and sapphire-eyed. "A movie star" - they
gasped behind his back. Day in and day out, he impelled his rickety
pushcart to its concrete post, there dispensing to the children with a
smile, a permanence till dusk. With sunset, he gathered his few goods,
bolted the fledgling flaps, and pushed back home, a few steps away.
When he grew old, he added to his burden a stool with an attached
umbrella, to shield him from the elements, and a greenish nylon sheet
to protect his wares. He became a fixture in this town of my birth. His
lime cart turned into a meeting spot - "by Pardo", they would say,
secure in the knowledge that he would always be there, erect and
gracious.
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