The gardener’s young son stood out in front of the house, trying with all his might to get his two year old brother into the burnt orange stroller.
Their mom had just dropped them off, so that, I suppose, she could get herself to a mandatory meeting, of some sort.
It took every bit of strength for the older boy to finally lock his wee brother inside the confines of the stroller’s padding. As he spun the stroller slowly around and around, his dad emerged from a side gate. He’d been in the backyard pruning some bushes, and waved, knowing that his boys were there waiting for him.
He walked into the street, crossing to the other side, heading for a neighboring house. The older boy sprinted after his dad, up the steep driveway, using the strength of his arms and legs to forge ahead, pushing the stroller and his brother up to the top. He stopped in front of the red brick porch steps, and pressed his foot down on the latch to lock the stroller in place. He sat there with his brother while his dad finished his gardening duties.
The vitality of their situation seemed predetermined. The need of a husband and wife to work together, to get things done.