A Summer Stolen

It's still August by a thread and last night the air smelled like winter. If summer came, I never saw it. There were no bronzed shoulders. There were no beach reads. There were no late night dances, no secret surprises. It was a season of quiet; serious and small.

In winter, the world is wrapped in gossamer. I am cocooned. The streets are silent but a hush, hush, hush. And then spring and green and light in my hair and yes, yes, yes, I am alive. Bronzed shoulders and beach reads; barbecues below the window where your homemade curtains hang. Fireflies and birdsongs and feet slapping concrete: I am alive.

But this winter there was no cocoon. There was a wailing, aching empty. I was stripped and bleeding and raw and when the spring came there was a scramble. If there were birdsongs I didn't hear them, only the rat a tat tat of my still-beating heart. There was a breathless grasping, a wanting; a pleading, desperate wheeze. There was a prayer.

I'm better now.

At night I sleep with two blankets. One for the summer night and one for my half-torn cocoon. I am shoring up; I am throwing away. I can be alright next year. I saw a crow last Tuesday and I'm letting this one go.

I'm letting it go.