In autumn she came. She sat beneath the falling leaves, feared her memories would wither and fade with them. She gathered crumbling foliage to her, sympathised with their dried out existence, their willingness to release the world. Would she go with them? Did she have the nerve? The world was a husk without him. In winter she came. She circled the monument, round and round, pacing out the minutes in a whirl of ephemeral flakes. She watched them melt on her hands, on her coat. Felt the stinging, fleeting touches on her cheeks. Would she ever leave the cold, the frozen silence? Could she melt and meld with the warmth of the world once more? Without him? In spring she came. Pale light, tentative warmth urging blossoms forth. Undercurrents of renewal, returning to the world after restorative sleep. Light breezes stirred her hair, crowned her with shed petals . Drifts piled around her feet. She kicked at the past blossoms, scattering them to the winds, tucked a spr...