by Gabriella Ganoe
Fall has always felt like a wake to me. A preview, a screening of the death to come, a way to see what living without the Sun will feel like, before its official. The falling leaves are like our heavy tears, the shriveling plants are the words we regret not saying. The wind is the coffin. It’s come to take the life away.
Winter is the funeral. Cold, the tears turned to rain or snow, the grass letting everyone walk right over it. There is no color, only gray. There is no Sun. The Moon has taken over, and even it seems tired. Winter lasts the longest too. They say it’s supposed to last a few months, but the time bleeds into itself, and before you know it, the whole year has been winter. Coats and hats and gloves appear on every street corner, like eulogies or wishful stories. But nothing can keep the frigid chill from seeping into your bones, the ice from frosting over your chest. This is where you lose hope. This is where you’re buried.
Spring comes as the reception. Not everyone has one, and they’re not always what they should be. Sometimes the foods bad, and sometimes, no ones in the mood to talk. Words are stuffed down throats by the cold that lingers under doorways or in corners. Regardless, this is where hope is nurtured. Words are exchanged like thank you cards, hugs are given in all directions. The color begins to return, and your heart begins to thaw. Spring is a promise.
Summer is the car ride home. Company and heat and unanswered questions. You can feel better, but still ache. Whole, but not completed. Around you are the reminders of the things you still have to lose, and the silence reminds you that you will. Summer is a distraction. It causes you to be too busy with the Sun in your eyes to notice the wind beginning to settle over the Earth. It’ll take life as easily as it has all the other times winter has won.
Post Script Magazine. 