She walked with her eyes downcast, studying the pale, dusty soil of the lane that branched off from the road and curved down into a small hollow. Her hands unlatched the whitewashed gate, pushing it open with a smooth swing of its hinges. Still, she did not look up yet, and her hands snagged the edges of the cloak that was draped over her shoulders. It was far too large, its hem nearly brushing along the earth, yet she clutched it about herself with a fervor that bordered on desperation.

Her feet knew when she had reached the first of the porch steps, even without needing her eyes to guide her, for she had made the walk thousands of times. Only when she came upon that first wooden platform, and the chipped, peeling paint stood stark beneath her stare, did she slowly begin to raise her head. 

A pair of sprawling, aged maple trees stood on either side of the small farmhouse, with their branches stretched towards each other, as if wanting to meet in the center above its roof. Already, their leaves were softly painted yellow at the edges. She mused on the rapidity of autumn's advance; the inevitability, the plodding certainty of winter's approach. 

All things must die.

A burst of wind, not quite warm, and not quite cool, rushed through the yard with a hissing through the tall, overgrown weeds. Her glance drifted to each side, silently deciding what work might need to be done in the yard before winter's arrival. There was a keen pleasure in the colors present, for what many called a "weed" was actually a wildflower, and what was once a verdant, green landscape under summer's heat, became a patterned tapestry of yellow and purple beneath autumn's gentle respite. She could not help but ponder for a time on the metaphor. The closer they came to death, the more beauty was displayed. Their twilight was not a time for grieving, but for a more poignant appreciation of the passing of time, and the cherishing of every moment that was granted.

Next, she looked to the door of the house. A subtle shiver passed over her, and the thick, wool fabric of the cloak was pulled about her chin. Still staring straight ahead, she burrowed her mouth and nose into the cloth, unconsciously drawing a breath, inhaling the familiar, comforting scent. She waited for some sense of courage to arrive, to turn the door into a welcoming, rather than intimidating sight. And while a feeling of tenderness swept over her, and she could almost hear his voice again, softly encouraging, it was not enough. Not today. She answered him silently, inside her mind.

At least I'm here.