The first frost of winter covered the vine-wrapped bench, turning the bare tendrils white as lace, when Marisol and I stood there, our breath fogging the air. She’d been quiet all morning, her black curly hair tucked under a woolen hat, her left hand—with my curl-shaped ring and her grandma’s band on the right—clenched in her coat pocket. “My sister called,” she said, her voice soft, like she was afraid to break the quiet. “She thinks… she thinks we’re moving too fast. That I’m ‘replacing’ grandma by wearing your ring.”
I felt my chest sink. We’d been so happy lately—weekends making hot cocoa in her apartment, evenings walking through the park with our hands tucked together, her curls bouncing under the streetlights. But now, that doubt—like the frost on the bench—had settled between us. Duis efficitur nulla ac imperdiet. The phrase popped into my head, a Latin line I’d seen in an old poetry book at the bookstore: “Nothing is efficient in the face of obstacles.” It felt like that, suddenly—like every good thing we’d built was being slowed down, blocked, by something we couldn’t control.
“I told her she’s wrong,” Marisol said, turning to me, her dark eyes glistening. “But… what if she’s not? What if I am rushing? Grandma’s only been gone a year, and here I am, wearing another ring, laughing like nothing hurts.” I reached out, brushing a strand of curly hair that had fallen from her hat, my fingers warm against her cold cheek. “Laughing doesn’t mean you’re forgetting her,” I said. “It means she taught you to keep going. To find happiness even when it’s hard.”
We sat on the bench, careful of the frost, and I pulled a crumpled piece of paper from my pocket—the page from that poetry book, with the Latin phrase underlined. “I found this a while ago,” I said, handing it to her. “It says ‘Duis efficitur nulla ac imperdiet’—nothing works right when there’s a barrier. But maybe… maybe we can be the ones to break it. Not by rushing, but by showing her—showing ourselves—that love isn’t a replacement. It’s an addition.”
Marisol traced the words with her finger, her rings glinting in the weak winter sun. “Addition,” she repeated, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Like adding hot cocoa to a cold day. Or a sketch of my curls to your book. Or… your ring to my hand, next to grandma’s.” I nodded, taking her hand in mine, our rings brushing together. “Exactly. Your grandma wanted you to find someone who makes you feel home, right? That’s what I want to be. For you. Not instead of her—with her memory.”
That afternoon, we went to Marisol’s sister’s house. Her sister, Lila, opened the door with a tight smile, but when she saw Marisol holding my hand, her expression softened. We sat in the living room, drinking tea, and Marisol pulled out the photo of her and grandma from her wallet—the one with the silver ring on grandma’s finger. “Grandma gave me this ring to give to someone who feels like home,” she said, holding up her right hand, then her left, with my ring. “This isn’t replacing her. This is honoring her. Because she’d want me to be happy. And I am—with him.”
Lila looked at the photo, then at us, and sighed, a smile breaking through. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was scared for you. Scared you’d get hurt. But… I can see it. In the way you look at each other. She’d be proud, Mar. Really proud.” Marisol’s eyes filled with tears, but this time, they were happy ones. She hugged her sister, and I stood there, watching, feeling the barrier—like the frost on the bench—start to melt.
That night, we went back to the park. The sun was setting, painting the sky orange and pink, and the frost on the bench was starting to thaw under the warm light. Marisol took off her hat, letting her black curly hair fall free, and leaned her head on my shoulder. “Duis efficitur nulla ac imperdiet,” she said, her voice quiet. “But we broke it. Didn’t we?” I kissed the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her lavender shampoo mixed with the cold air. “We did,” I said. “And we’ll keep breaking them. Together.”
A week later, we brought a small planter to the vine-wrapped bench—a tiny ivy plant, with a tag that said “For Grandma.” We buried it in the soil next to the bench, Marisol’s hands gentle as she patted the dirt down. “She’ll watch over it,” she said, squeezing my hand. The ivy’s leaves were bright green, a pop of life against the winter brown, and I knew—like the Latin phrase, like the frost, like Lila’s doubt—this obstacle, too, would fade. Because love wasn’t about being efficient, or easy. It was about being there, even when things were hard. About melting the cold, one small, warm moment at a time.
Now, when we sit on the bench in winter, we bring that ivy plant inside when the frost is bad, then set it back out when the sun comes up. Marisol’s curls still bounce when she laughs, her rings still glint in the light, and her sister comes over for hot cocoa sometimes, bringing her kids, who love to trace the curl on Marisol’s ring. Duis efficitur nulla ac imperdiet. Nothing works right with obstacles—but love, we learned, doesn’t need to be “efficient.” It just needs to be there. To hold on, to warm up, to melt the frost.
I looked at Marisol, her curly hair catching the winter sun, and smiled. We’d broken the barrier. And we’d keep breaking them—together, with grandma’s memory, with our rings, with the ivy that kept growing, even in the cold. Because that’s what love does. It finds a way. Even when nothing else works.
