OId in the cold

The cold was biting, the pain immense, but she must rise from this doorway. Her tattered clothes pulled taught around her, shielding from the flurries. Before her stood a vast park, her own huge garden with weeds to pull, litter to shift. So on her day goes, ignored by all but purveyors of food as she tends to her wintered child. Night falls, slumber comes, too old, too cold, gone. Tattered clothes found filled with bones come morn. No family to grieve her, the only tear shed by a hot dog man who'd watched her on her way.