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The snow cascades furiously outside the window, covering the sleeping flower beds in its velvet blanket. Though her gaze is fixed out over the winter gloaming, she doesn't see it. Her mind is elsewhere . . .

Without moving her eyes she winds up the old music box again and lets the nostalgic melody wash over her once more.

This was their song. They danced to it sixty-three years ago, when they were courtin'. It played at their wedding. It played in this house for decades. This house . . . where they raised a family together. Where they lived together. Where they were supposed to die together . . .

But he went first. Six long years ago.

It was hard that first year, but the children looked after her, took turns staying in the house with her. But, of course, they all have their own families to raise, and eventually their visits got further and further apart. Now it's once a year at Christmas . . . and the rare phone call . . .

She sighs.

Sometimes in the evening she falls asleep in her rocking chair, thinking about that trip to Niagra back in '53. Sometimes at night she feels his strong arms around her, keeping her warm as he'd done for decades. Sometimes in the morning she wakes up to the sound of his gentle voice, singing their song. But it fades. It always fades . . .

Now, as the music box winds down again, she searches hard in her mind's eye. She tries to remember his face. She tries, but, something's in the way. A fog. A dirty window. She can almost see him in her periphery, but when she tries to focus directly at him he blurs.

Now, in the winter dusk . . . the dusk of her mind . . . she cannot remember his face . . .

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