An unending summer is as rare as a winter wont never to cease. Spring grasses are ever wet and a phantom chill assails autumn gusts. To live where we lived for our sole year, where nature endows ample and nearly equal time to each of the quarterly climes indeed molded the memory of how the sibling seasons melded us as one. To tell you each remembrance would keep me too long from the life I continue to live, and, were you still here amongst the living you would say is foolish and beckon me return. Four instances will then suffice.
A rhythmic pulse of click and flutter, the symphonic cicada brood dispensed into the trees, overpowered the vanity of our words. You threw your arms and twirled around with head turned skyward. You spun and swayed and summoned me to join. You’re making the world your very own personal cyclorama, you said. The cicadas’ synchronized booms enveloped us.
When we looked at our shades in the lakeside waters next to our wooded path, our figures not familiar with the other yet, your hand reached out and my hand opened. The trees swayed and ripples on the water’s surface began to blur two shapes as one.
I wake up. I shrug off the blanket, sacrificing the warmth of our incubation, and I step softly to the top of the stair of this attic room where the smells and sounds of a eggs and potatoes and bacon and burnt toast and coffee synchronize to a pulsating aromatic decibel level that only subsides when I am at the table chewing the incepting bite and you shoot the meekest of looks at me, shyly seeking sanction. When the truncated day hails farewell its setting sun, I become aware that those icicles, apt to sharpen within my mind in winters prior, will never again form.
You would walk faster than me after saying something you thought I might get upset about. Your steps were quickened, not for fear, but for the sake of play. There was never much of anything you could have said or done to make me upset and you were kind to me in spite of that. I’d wait back until you were far enough away to realize I wasn’t chasing you. When you turned, the final journey of sun splinters aborted their forest floor target and splashed instead into the strands of hair falling across your eyes. I could hold the sight of your smile, spotlighted by the waving canopy overhead, for an eternity.
You live wholly within each season that occurs around me, for you imprinted on each one of my sensory receptors the soft whisper of your song. In return, I offer gratitude. Gratitude to see you anew in all of nature’s farthings.