The seasons are changing, but we remain the same. Like a tree that keeps its roots so deep, our fears and thoughts may fall like leaves, but will stand up for a while.
Perhaps the course of nature will bring new colors, or even play out with the saturation, but deeply we know that the biggest change will be forever in the horizon.
When the ground is covered by a mosaic of dead flowers and the sound of silence echoes ahead the melancholic coast, the wind should bring a fresh kiss to our cheeks. Not so warm as a summer hug, neither distant as a winter handwave or joyful as the whole spring. it slowly adds up new shades, shadows and songs.
So if the seasons are changing and we can’t change, why should we keep track of the days, weeks and months? Not that we want, but we need to believe. Believe that every new checkmark on the calendar will insert more hope to our crisis, more chapters in our journey, more credit in our lives.
As soon as the first leaf hits the floor and the coats replace the dresses, our bodies will need warmth, more than “i miss you”, so pretend our arms are close and ready to hold, because that’s the time when it is (easy to) fall.
Read your favorite quotes, cover your toes without tags, celebrate the yellow, red and orange, hold us tight before bed, make us sleep somewhere else, but don’t let us fade into a sea of uncertainties.
How many seasons do we need to go through to be sure that some wounds are healed? How many summers to erase the taste of someone’s lips? How many winters to vanish the memories of grief? How many dark nights? How many times?
Plans and beliefs may go away, so we are still here like trees in a large field at eventide, while the seasons are changing, and we still remain.
Painting: Change of Seasons, 2005 by Robert Kushner.
