The reds, oranges, and yellows of November are grey and blue and soft shades of brown because of you. It’s April now, and my sundresses sit in my closet still, waiting, while my sweaters stretch and move around me each day, uninterested in keeping their shape as I shrink mine.
Even the cherry blossoms are still hiding, although we drove an hour to wake them. The city threw a whole festival in their honor, and still, they sleep. Did you know about this? Are you responsible?
Perhaps tomorrow’s first Farmer’s Market will sell Spring to us in little green boxes marked $3 or 2 for $5. I’ll take two—give you one if you’d like. I think it pairs well with strawberries. You’ll love it; just take the day off and come with me.
And listen: afterward, maybe you can move on. I know. It’s difficult, because I promised to love you, embrace you, adorn myself in scarves and hats and gloves for you. But I didn’t, and I’ve been tearing at my skin for months because of it.
I thought we’d share memories together, and you’d teach me to build a proper snowman—do you keep your gloves on to keep your hands from freezing, or do you take them off while building and use them to warm your frozen hands later when the work is done? And I thought we’d take the cutest pictures together, but in every one you’re just there and I’m obviously freezing. And so it feels like things between us are still unresolved.
But listen, really. We’ve tried to make it work these last few months, honest. I gave it everything I had left; and I can feel your spirit weakening, too. It’s time for a clean break.
Let’s acknowledge that we both made mistakes—I didn’t wear the right things, you were cruel, mean, and only shared the worst parts of yourself with me; I ran in the mornings without consulting you, and you pushed me around and made my eyes water. (It’s only an accident that you sound worse in those scenarios.)
Is that why you linger? Because of my unwillingness to accept you on your own terms? If so, I’m sorry. Really, I am. Next year, I will carve a real place in my heart for you. I’ll reflect on you sooner so you don’t feel like this blog attempt was an after thought.
You’ll be sure of my love then. But for now, Winter, leave Spring alone. She has nothing to do with us, and it’s time you let her do what she does.
Come with me tomorrow. I’ll introduce you two. We’ll all have strawberries, and I’ll tell you both about a thing called crawfish. And then we can all plan a trip to Louisiana to meet Year-Long Summer.
Trust me; change is good.