Seasons May Change

• Emma Scheer, Grade 10
• Short Story
• 2013

I see an army of little red men surrounding me. Old men, with red, peeling faces. Belts of fat hold their legs up, as a leather belt might hold up jeans, and they lie, beached, on blue and white striped towels. Big, black sunglasses cover their wrinkled eyes, and their blonde wives sit uneasily beside them. Tanned, close to sunburnt, they watch with the alertness only known to mothers and anxiety patients, as their tiny children shriek - running on the hot sand or splashing merrily in the seawater.

I look down the beach, and see nothing but colours. Yellow, mostly, but there is a lot of blue from the ocean, and the harsh, bright shades of unnatural colour in the ghastly summer clothes for the middle-aged.

I've missed the sun, and the way the air looks when it's warm. I've missed the silvery white sand and the way it sticks to you when you've been swimming. I've missed wearing floaty, dreamy clothes, and twirling around in pretty dresses. I've missed the lethargy of hot days, lying on the cold tiles in the kitchen because it's the only place cool enough. I've missed being ridiculously sunburnt, and smiling in the corner of my mouth when I'm scolded for it.

I've missed all of the summer, but I know that soon enough, I'll crave the colder months. Soon enough, I'll miss the winter as I've missed these bright and happy days; want to snuggle by a fire with a blanket and a soft toy that I should have grown out of. I'll wish I was lying underneath my quilt - wish it was cold enough to do so. I'll wish it was raining on me, making me sparkle with the little shiny droplets. I'll wish that I'm walking down a busy road with my laughing friend, her cheeks pink and her eyes brighter than summer. I'll wish for my trackies and jumpers and beanies and scarves, and being determinedly colourful as the sky insists on being grey.

And what of the others? What of the pretty, lonely Autumn, that touches your skin with cold fingers, and has dimples in her cheeks? She shakes the frost from her red hair; never laughing, but often peaceful. She has the loveliest eyes, and they crinkle generously in the corners when she feels loved enough to smile. She is the queen of scarves, the quirky drama teacher with dainty fabrics flowing over her shoulder blades. The wind teases them, and messes her hair into an infinity of tangles. Is she happy? She likes to think, and doesn't talk much - which often makes people think she's sad. But she isn't. She's quiet, and she's content.

Finally, Spring. Her dance says energy, and her eyes say love. She is sweet, she is generous, she is precious. Her short, white hair glows in the sunlight, and she adores shaking out the last of the winter rains like a puppy dog after a bath. She is a mother before anything else, and her tiny, soft fingers take fear away- she comforts without trying, and is cheerful without thinking. Her mouth an endless smile, her face stretched from it as she sings with her birds - the tune pretty, the song filled with celebration.