I've been moping ever since your fickle brother, Summer, packed up his wine coolers and his Frisbee and left me with you. Silent brooding stormy you. I missed those silly songs he sang, how he laughed long and hard at just about anything.
I locked myself away from you. I called you a cold hearted bastard, I named you cruel. I made fun of the way you never seem to have anything at all to say.
Then today, you stood at my doorstep with the sun in your arms and asked me to come away with you. I didn’t want to leave the warmth of my house, my steaming coffee, the novel half-read on the end table. I gave you a million reasons why I couldn’t—there was e-mail to answer and laundry to wash and the refrigerator needed cleaning.
I’d forgotten how persistent you can be. You stood fast, saying nothing, in your white suit and carrying that sun. And finally, out of excuses, I bundled myself, still grumbling, into my coat and hat. I got my skinny skis from the back of the closet.
You’d done your magic on the park. The pine boughs draped in white linen , the snowflakes lit to flickering under that luminous sun, the brilliance only you know how to conjure. And the quiet—I had forgotten how it slows down the world, how it reminds me just breathing is enough.
I glided on the soft snow and remembered how, in my younger days, I’d loved you best of all. Your snow filled woods had filled me with wonder. I swooped down your sunlight slopes, the wind racing through my hair singing yes, yes and yes again.
How could I have forsaken you? Today you came to me dressed in your finest white and asked I come away with you. I am glad I didn’t refuse you. I love you, still.