A bucket of sticks.

The ground is covered in snow, everything is dead. As I walked through my yard this afternoon, I came across a few old buckets of sticks. They belong to my grandfather, he had planned on transforming them into beautiful strong walking sticks. This was before we discovered he has dementia. Him and I both know that he will never do anything with the wood, but he can't get rid of it. Every once in awhile he adds to his collection, a collection of memories from each walk.

Soon those memories will be lost and all that will remain are these old broken branches.