There it was, the tires grown over by decades past. Rust upon it, a lacy crust; its former rosy glow ravaged. She found it, right where she had left it, leaning up against that solitary tree in the field. She had ridden it there while fierce tears had burned her cheeks and the roughness of the furrowed land had jarred her mercilessly. She had rested the bicycle tenderly against the tree, a cenotaph to the searing loss, and had walked away.