The dint of loneliness.
She rubs her palm against the stale grease on the window, further streaking it. Though blurred, she can make out the figures across the road.
The man, the woman, the children. He helps her onto the running board of the long black automobile, closes the door after. The children clamber into the back.
Trees shade the lawn so the grass does not grow well near the house. Just as well, since there is no one left to cut it.
Tired of the window, she moves back into the shadows of the house to wait for something.
The dark loneliness bubbles to the surface. The sadness is very, very real. Beautifully done.
Oh, that is a dark and lonely tale.
Nice story.