Roof

four years ago, she was a brown, bent object hunched amongst six years worth of her life--six years' worth, four years ago--wrapped in black garbage bags, huddled, doleful, in the jagged, empty space enough to fit four wheels, a body, just one, in the empty lot beneath the trees--

--the trees. Even now, she thanks those trees, the shade that made the sun's glare seem less harsh, kinder than how he put six years'--no, six years' and a lifetime's--worth of her into those bags as if they were trash