Seasons of the year.

It’s a late spring afternoon as you watch her back, the length of her hair, the perceived hesitancy in her walk; all of her, slip into the crowd and disappear. For a moment, you clutch at the smell of salted butter, candyfloss and dead grass, as if it is the only thing that will keep you from falling. A ten-foot tall man strides past you while a small girl giggles at the weight of a giant panda, her laughter lost in the cacophony of fairground music.
Dusk settles, and the lights of the ferris wheel find their voice against the darkening sky.

And it sounds like this.

It’s a summer Sunday, the journey home begins. Speckles of sand cling to the hair on your legs, your towel is damp and slightly uncomfortable but you don’t care. Traffic is moving at a crawl, the usual 20 minute drive is going to take at least an hour. So slow, in fact, that passengers are climbing out of cars to buy ice creams from the roadside stall. Behind you, a friend slides open the door of the van and you all gaze at the ocean, trying to come up with names for a blue you’ve never seen before. The heat is slowly dying, its last breath ushering forth the gentlest of breezes. It skitters an empty wrapper across the tarmac then, bored, it wisps its way toward the van. The wind sees what none of your friends do, and as if to say I know, it conjures a last gust that catches a few strands of her hair and lays them tenderly on your arm. She reaches to brush them off, but hesitates for a second, holds your gaze and smiles.
And you can sense every sweaty car, as this procession winds its way along the coast, every occupant echoing your thoughts. There will never be a day this perfect again.

And it sounds like this.

It’s an autumn morning. The rays of a harvest sun surge through a gap in the curtains, but the tepid smattering of light on your face betrays a waning strength. Ironic, as you too feel burnt out. His hands, last night. The hands of a god, creating a supernova, coaxing from you an explosion so coruscating, so white hot, that Time must have been consumed, it’s ashes flaking the bedroom floor. Gravity seems particularly cruel this morning, or is it the weight of your heart that constrains you to this moment? Your arm, dangling from the edge of the bed, finds your dress but no trace of his shoes.
And it’s resignation that finally raises you from the dead.

And it sounds like this.

It’s winter.

And winter has no sound.

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~ by tenmiles on September 20, 2005.

10 Responses to “Seasons of the year.”

  1. This is so gorgeous and as always, you manage to make a person think beyond the words you’ve written down. Winter has some of the best sounds my friend … 🙂

  2. I’ll have to come back later to listen to the sounds of the seasons…

    great writing, the Autumn bit especially.

  3. i love the soundtracks paired with the pieces. it’s so very true.

  4. Often time passes too quickly, in more ways than one. Fabulously thought-provoking piece.

  5. AAAARGHH!!! I’m stuck in an office with a day job! This piece makes me want to run around, carefree, for the rest of my life.

    And the music is so fitting, so beautiful.

    *sigh*

  6. Great piece of writing. I like the bit that winter has no sound. It conveys exactly how I feel about winter.

  7. Thanks all. Your comments are appreciated beyond measure.

    And hey! Chitty! Thanks for stopping by. SA takes blogdom by storm!!

  8. Thanks for the welcome. I’ve actually been reading your blog for a while… just haven’t commented until now.

  9. Yeah, Chitty is shy… {enter eyeroll here} =)

  10. Very well done. A fine piece of writing.

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