Between her thumb and forefinger she holds the butt end of a bent, smoldering joint and inhales as the rain beats fat heavy cold drops down upon her and the toddler in her stroller blissfully unaware of strange smells, rain spells and where in space, time and geography she sits strapped to plastic wheels as her mother exhales a late morning high before her Saturday afternoon filled with passive television scenes and text message conversations with the toddler’s father; the one who used to look so cool in a backwards cap, forearms crossed so the muscle fibers folded, and how his low vibrato sang to her a pet name ‘my peach,’  but now remains distant like the moon to touch, always seen, but out of reach, the toddler wonders where it goes in the daylight; those messages, displayed like a different language that future linguists will discover buried under dust and rubble, deciphering into relevant meaning as they forever try to understand life in the now, the stress struggles of single mothers in the cold rain.