Summer Spring
Created | Updated Dec 1, 2010
My son was out in the winter snow today.
He was trying to build a snowman and create as many different snowballs as he could. Twigs in some, leaves in others and pure soft snow in the best ones.
The snowballs went well, but the snowman needed some work. Well, actually, the snowman needed me, but I needed to get us some food.
I trudged through the sludge of the winter landscape to the local shops to buy provisions. I didn’t want my husband to drive me less locally, the roads were treacherous and he’s not been well of late – maybe his illness is getting the better of him, I hope not. – I don’t want to risk it anyway.
When I came home my son was in the back garden singing a song. I didn’t recognise it.
My arms were tired and shaking from the bags I’d carried, but I’d promised to help him with his snowman.
Once my arms had stopped shaking, and my husband had had his hot drink, I ventured outside again. In my head I was singing a song – not one I’d heard in while, just one of those earworms – you know, one that just comes in and won’t let go until you’ve listened to the ‘proper version’? His song was full of the seasons and how he’d seen them over the year since we’d taken him out of school. It was magical.
He was singing of the Summer of Winter, when all things are cold, but sunny and of the Autumn of Spring, when things are supposed to die but don’t.
I helped him build his snowman.
I wish I could remember his song.
He was trying to build a snowman and create as many different snowballs as he could. Twigs in some, leaves in others and pure soft snow in the best ones.
The snowballs went well, but the snowman needed some work. Well, actually, the snowman needed me, but I needed to get us some food.
I trudged through the sludge of the winter landscape to the local shops to buy provisions. I didn’t want my husband to drive me less locally, the roads were treacherous and he’s not been well of late – maybe his illness is getting the better of him, I hope not. – I don’t want to risk it anyway.
When I came home my son was in the back garden singing a song. I didn’t recognise it.
My arms were tired and shaking from the bags I’d carried, but I’d promised to help him with his snowman.
Once my arms had stopped shaking, and my husband had had his hot drink, I ventured outside again. In my head I was singing a song – not one I’d heard in while, just one of those earworms – you know, one that just comes in and won’t let go until you’ve listened to the ‘proper version’? His song was full of the seasons and how he’d seen them over the year since we’d taken him out of school. It was magical.
He was singing of the Summer of Winter, when all things are cold, but sunny and of the Autumn of Spring, when things are supposed to die but don’t.
I helped him build his snowman.
I wish I could remember his song.
