There is a minute, green dwelling on the corner of Cherry Street, surrounded by insignificant, seemingly grey boxes that extend down the paved path. At one glance, it is known to be that warm flicker of life, of love, in the midst of a barren street. 

The mailbox at the entry has scatters of hand-painted butterflies and holds the secrets to the beloved home. Adjacent to the doorway, a garden lines the hazel colored bricks and is home to twinkles of yellow and purple petals that scream their love to nobody, anymore. 

With just a few steps in, a gentle wave of relief washes down the stairs. There are staggered, floating shelves that hold miniature glass bottles, nicknacks, and frames of memories. The kitchen window projects streaks of rainbows through a suspended crystal. It is as if those rainbows had been strategically sprinkled by the sun. In the back, a paltry deck displays an array of herbs and strings of ivy that droop down over the railings. The honeysuckle hugs splinters of the wood to illustrate a mural for the eyes gathered on the deck. 

Just past the oak trees in the yard, lemon-colored primroses twirl in the wind, appearing to wave at those who gaze at them. 

Back inside, two beds are enclosed between four large canvases. Canvases painted with expressions of passion and brushstrokes of tenderness. Every detail is wrapped up tight in care and tied with an exuberant bow that epitomizes the security, and pure elation of every moment experienced within this dwelling. 

It is now winter. The bow has unraveled and the wrappings have been torn off and tossed into an inextinguishable fire. With every snowflake that falls, a fragment of life fades away. 

The primroses curl up their hands and sink back into the ground. The ivy leaves crinkle and depart from their dangly stems. A fresh sheet of snow has covered the petite garden like a bare mattress. Empty space stands in lieu of the glass jars, nicknacks, and frames of memories. The crystal relocated, and the sun has found a new residence to sprinkle rainbows. The canvases are now desolate. The mailbox, covered in hand-painted butterflies, is sealed shut and will erase the secrets it once clutched. The only remark that finds its way to the entrance is hollow, frigid air. 

Warmth and love will accompany this home again one day, but in the meantime, it remains stagnant in solitude. The minute, green dwelling now blends into the patterns of grey boxes strung along the paved path.