Although it was nearing mid-spring, winter held sullenly to the early morning air. The grass was frigid with dew, and the earth bounced back restlessly; resisting being touched. My jeans are soaked said reason… None of it matters I replied, forcing the voice to retreat.
It was years since I had been here, but I was determined not to forget. The petals were pinker back then, almost as if they were flushed with excitement. Now they seemed comparatively paler and unwilling to leave their wooded home. It was easier back then. Simple, even. But now…
“Hush!” I told the voices, but this time out loud; as if the waves of sound would somehow reverberate more deeply, forcing them into silence.
A short gust of wind pushes firmly against the branch above my head, prying the white petals out from their roots. I look past them as they flurry to the ground. Why do people delight in the springtime? To me there is nothing so melancholy. New beginnings resign to inevitable endings, and I watch them falter feeling oh-so-very old in my skin.
Do you remember when it was just us? We would count the honeybees as they hovered from flower to flower. We would try to guess where they would land, but you would always win. How happy we had been, watching flowers drunk dry of their fruit.