Dusk descends like the closing of a coffin lid in the last lingering moments of a funeral and one feels as if daylight is gone forever, fled from the earth. The wind groans in some empty house up the street. I stand, alone, in front of the church.

The church itself resembles a gnarled tree. Although it is impossible to discern exactly what, something of this place reeks of disrepair. The siding is in place but its color is unsettling, verging on gray. Its steeple is short, clawing into the sky but not reaching the fullness of its height. There are lights on inside, people passing in front of the windows, but not even these are inviting. The stillness of the outdoor air makes it feel as if they are ghosts, fleeting, perched to fly and disappear forever into clouds.

My breath hangs heavy in the air, condensed and visible and hanging like speech bubbles. I remember my mother's words spoken maybe moments ago (but waiting makes the feeling of eternity and time seems to creep by).

"Stay here. I'm only looking for a few things. I'll be back in a few moments."

Through the windows I see women, tables, stacks of canned peas but not my mother. There is no reason I should, only the familiarity, I think, might make me feel warm. Although the day had begun as merely crisp, the cold has taken root and I feel as if my skin is contracting, clinging closer to my core. The coat which was smotheringly warm in my mother's 1987 Cadillac now feels like papier mache.

The Cadillac had been laden with cigarette smoke and silence, as it usually was. My mother seemed to communicate not with words, but with taps of her long, freckled fingers on the steering wheel instead. I watched the streetlights turn, people stepping into used book stores and then the passing of the railroad tracks, the colors of houses changing in an almost autumnal fashion from clean whites and cherry reds to shades of gray and brown and a strange, regurgitated green.

I am aware of the passage of time because of shivering-ten minutes, twenty, thirty? I don't know exactly. I consider going into the church to find her but something in her tone had sounded forbidding. Instead, I slide down to the ground, onto the curb, leaning inwards, blowing into my hands. The posture feels heavy, the cold numbing and heavy and-

I realize that I am awake, and that I had not been and that I had fallen asleep outside on the curb in front of the church. My back aches. My extremities are numb. I stand, bewildered, and turn to look at the church. The lights are still on but the people in the windows are gone. It hasn't been long, but at the same time it's been too long. I remember that I was waiting on my mother.

Five or so steps and I am knocking on the door of the church, listening to two muffled voices and the sound of footsteps on carpet. A woman opens the door. I mostly notice her large, soulful eyes. She isn't my mother.

"Hello...I-I'm looking for my mother. She was in here?"

The woman looks sympathetic. "She might have been but we're closed for tonight now. Have you checked your car?"

I shake my head and step away, forgetting to thank her. Down the street, I see a group of women walking with paper bags. My mother's stout frame and her wild hair are not among them.

In the thick yellow glow of the streetlamp, I can see the first glimmering sheen of snow.