Out a window, whose edges were frosted
I stared for hours it seemed.
Letting my eyes play over the concrete sidewalks
made even harder to my eyes by their brisk dusting of snow.
Behind my eyes my mind played a game with me, where it asked me if I was ready to believe that my grandmother was dead, or if I'd rather keep pretending that by standing alone in a stairway, looking out an ancient university window that I could keep the tears, which were sliding down my nose, from coming.
The window's caulking was old and the cold leaked through like a cancer, wisps chilling my cheeks and lacing around my fingers as they lay clenching the pane.
I loved her, and it was in this moment of frozen grass and untimely death that I realized it.
Not before. And for that I am ashamed.