I watched from five stories above, a wooden bench with iron components, slowing becoming obscured by the constant snow fall.
The bench, the “s” shaped cobble path, the rusted trash container, all vanished against the white environment. All forgotten until spring.
I assumed that they hung onto hope, for once spring came around, that maintenance would return and warm their cold bones right up.
I then realized that the surgeon had returned to bring news of my mother. I only hoped that she had return to reveal that the cancer was curable.
A year later, and I still wait for my bones to be warmed.