The sun slid pale yellow along the ecliptic, its strength cut by the winter’s chill, but its light was strong enough for the snowy hill to sparkle and fade with time. It was a rolling hill, the kind that normally be commandeered by gangs of children with sleds, the kind that rolled down into a small meadow cut in half with a short wood fence bound by wire.
This is where Andrea came to sit and think, to be away from the crowds that stared. She had seen the meadow grow tall grasses, pink and yellow flowers. She had watched the storms rain down in the summer, the clouds of bugs that buzzed, the yellow and red and red leaves and the brown rabbits that turn to white.
The past year for her was measured in changes of this meadow, a few miles from St. Andrews Lake. The past year hadn’t been any worse or better than the previous twentyfive, but the year was ending.
She had seen the notice. New Shopping Centre, Outside St. Andrews Lake.
She stood up, dusted the snow off, and left.