“Thus sometimes hath the brightest day a cloud,
And after summer evermore succeeds
Barren winter, with his wrathful nipping cold;
So cares and joys abound, as seasons fleet.”
~ William Shakespeare’s King Henry VI. Part 2. Act 2. Scene 4
I despised summer. Winter was the only season in which we could be together. The bright sunlight, warm winds, and chirruping insects all seemed to laugh in the face of my broken heart. Even Persephone and Hades had two out of the four seasons together. Why was I forced to suffer alone for three?
By the gods, this cruel twist of fate. I was once as free and wild as a summer wind, leaping through green grass meadows, chasing crickets, and splashing through rushing streams. The only season to ever soften my stride was winter. So I never expected you.
You, with your cold kisses that bit my cheeks. Icy drops caressing mellow mistletoe berries. Naked branches holding high a thick blanket of pure, flaky snow.
The simplicity of your beauty astonished me. So intricate, yet so plain. So different from me.
Me? I’m brash and gaudy in comparison to your serene beauty. Vibrant, glorious, atmospheric—all words once used to describe me, now feel cheap and insincere. How could anyone find me beautiful when placed alongside your perfection?
Two opposites: you and I.
I tried hating you. But the warmth within your chill was too intoxicating. You drew me in, collapsing into your cool caress. Any fire within me was quickly extinguished. A puff of smoke, so quickly here and then gone again. Blink, and you might miss me.
I tried loving you. But you were gone too soon. The beauty of you is in your fleeting nature, as is my own. For that reason, I understand you.
I know you like I know myself. That is to say, all too well. It makes me both hate and love you.
Sometimes you tease me, appearing a little here in autumn or a little there in spring.
But summer, my once treasured time, my crowning glory, has been tarnished by the extreme lack of you, my love.
So I will wait. Sticky and sweaty, dreaming of folding my body into you, as the heat flushes within, keeping the searing chill at bay. I will wait. No matter the length of days, seasons carry on, spinning and turning.
As an author, Alexandra Rexford enjoys writing stories with wit and romance, including a dash of danger. In a perfect world, she would spend all her time writing, reading, sipping hot cocoa, and snuggling with her dogs.
Featured image by Annie Spratt on Unsplash.
