The Fall of Summer

The fall chill blew threw only weeks before, which at the time merely hinted at what was to come. Clues battled not to be taken lightly. The slow ruthless killing of leaves guised in hues unfamiliar to the now trained eyes of the many, furthered the plan of winter’s wrath.  Now, it was not always this way. Fall, many many years ago, acted as cohort to summer’s annual celebration. The relationship was beautiful in mutuality and simple in its existence. Freedom was felt year round by months smitten with warm hearts and days long. What was is no longer what is. If only in those days, being aware were to have accompanied being present; then and only then would things have turned out differently? Not as cold. Not as short. Not as dark.

Sunshine, bright and strong enough to cure any ailment, presided as doctor over the fair lands ripe with laughter and songs of those in flight. Banks gathered hugs, smiles and dancing and stored then in unkempt huts full of holes through which rays and gusts of play ran.  January spent the majority of her hours flirting with the appropriately prideful October. Under pillows, referred to as clouds only by the glasses wearing, pocket protecting September, the two spun in circles with hands as free as July and feet as fleet and jovial as Decembers yearly birthday bash. Festivals were not special occasions but simply the way to interact with the day. All, it seemed was right and alive cloaked beneath entrenched optimism. Even August could be seen studying in the bright exposure with a book in one hand and a smirk hung on his mug.

 Seconds and minutes hid undetected, neglected by all but one. November, drenched in bitterness and envy from nothing in particular, slumped in the shade of a darkened fruit-bearing tree, counting down. Envy was not as much the chemical clouding his heart as neglect was. One of the youngest of the months, hand-me-downs and practical jokes followed him like a pesky fly.  One bad thought of cold quietly curled up in his depth awaiting and calling out for other similar ideas to join. Centuries of yellows and bright reds don’t have many dull blues. However when left to ferment, hatred needs only a few to twist truth into folly. The shade became an escape while each laugh poked at the already fated chord.

Had June only have noticed his brother’s face full of loneliness? Had October only have stopped his feasts? Or invited him? Had the twins, March and April, built a fort big enough for three? Had sexy February done anything other than admiring herself in the mirror? Had any of them reach out a hand?

This is a story of hadn’t s however. Questions were not answered or even asked until it was too cold, too short, and too dark.