Summer was kept in a jar and rarely released. She’d pretty much gotten used to it by now, but she longed for her freedom. She longed to roam the land, coating it in strands of golden sunbeams, as her fingers touched the tall green blades of grass, their bodies smooth, their edges paper cut sharp. She longed to feel her energy coursing through her, causing an explosion of growth; flowers blossoming from buds, their heady floral scent filling the air, Lavender, Roses, Deadly Nightshade, each bowing their delicate heads to her. She yearned to witness animals bathing in her presence, their soft fur shining in her light, Bearded Dragons basking on rocks, close to bare people, laying themselves down on beaches, as she heated the billions of grains of sand and made the water twinkle azure blue. She wanted to invite them to frolic and play with the waves, to love and leap and abandon themselves. She wanted the taste of salt on her lips, the whistling wind whipping her hair, she wanted their laughter filling her.
Oh how she missed this, with every photon of her being, as she watched Winter from inside her glass jar. Watched him freezing lakes, until they became hard and still, icing the pavements and postboxes and car windshields too. She watched him causing chilblains and stirring storms, bringing blizzards and toppling trees. She heard the wind howling and the rivers singing a mournful refrain, as they flooded their banks, gushing over the land and drowning the grass blades, the wheat sheaves and people’s hopes. She witnessed Winter as he stomped over the land in his big leather boots, jeans and studded biker jacket, humming to himself,
‘These boots were made for walking and that’s just what they’ll do...cause one of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you…’
There had been a time when things were different for Summer, when the long warm sultry days seemed to stretch on into forever. When she’d dance in her fifties style swing dress, purple polka dots and cinched in waist, skirt fully billowing as she twirled and twirled until she was dizzy and giddy and light, her hair shining like polished ebony. She’d been stupid, naive, young. She’d let her heart, (or at perhaps her groin, who can say for sure), lead her, when she should have trusted her head, did she mention that she was young though? There he’d been, Winter, she thought with a bitterness that was almost as cold as his touch. There he’d been, with his killer watt smile and icicle hair, the chilled blue of his eyes, that almost reduced her to a puddle of warm water.
So they’d been on a few dates, dinner, the cinema, dancing in the moonlight, both to the song and quite literally. They’d shared the spice of Buffalo Wings and sour Tequila Slammers,
‘Oh Tequila it makes me happy,’ she sang to herself wistfully.
It had become a melody tinged with regret, but I digress. They’d ground up against each other on the dance floor, the smell of musk, sweat and something more primal filling her nostrils. They’d shared the kind of kisses that made her tongue tingle and her stomach feel that tug inside deep within it. He’d smelt of liquorice, snow and a hint of Christmas and her senses assaulted, she’d been caught up in the euphoria of it all.
She gave no heed to willowy Spring’s warnings, that he’d already messed with her buds. She paid no attention to auburn Autumn’s promises. Promises that Summer would find happiness in Autumn’s moderate temperatures and her glow of crisp rustling leaves, their colours like flicks of fire flames, nestling in a bed of brown. She wasn’t even tempted by the taste of Pumpkin Pie or a spiced latte, distinctly lacking in the aforementioned Pumpkin. Oh no, she was sure that Winter was for her, absolutely convinced, after all opposites attract don’t they? At least that’s what they say, whoever they are.
They’d rode on Winter’s Motorbike, grasping the hard cold metal between her thighs, her hands holding tightly to his waist, her breasts pressed firmly against his back, her hair flowing behind her like a cape. They’d driven into the darkness of the night, it calling her name in whispers, only lit by the pinpricks of stars shining through the void above them, each one a guide or a warning. A wolf howled to the non existent moon and they pulled up quickly on the cliff’s edge, the bike skidding in a circle, gravel crunching beneath its tires. The sea salt smell that she loved so much filled her nostrils and she could hear the sound of the waves below crashing through her eardrums, beating a heavy rhythm that spoke of war and possibility. She savoured the taste of him, his skin, his mouth, his all, aniseed and mint mingled on her tongue.
She’d been lulled by their dance and the night and the timelessness of it all and she’d told him the key to her freedom. She’d shown him what allowed her to be, what enabled her essence to flow, her energy to soar and he’d taken it, without asking and by force. She’d trusted him and he’d taken it all.
So now she was trapped, trapped in a glass jar, only brought out when he wanted to play. Then she was petulant, rude, difficult, but she suffered for her sulks and was stuffed back into the transparent urn. She was punished for her truth and so was the earth, deprived of her nurturing warmth. The earth missed her who provided it with life, the soil hardened and remained barren; the shoots of Spring withered and there was no harvest in Autumn. There were no ripe apples to be plucked from the trees and tasted, their juice lubricating dry throats. There were no golden sheaves of wheat, to be ground and remade, no soft dough for wizened hands to sink into and knead over and over again, no yeasty bread rising and filling empty nostrils with its freshly baked smell.
The people who needed her, relied on her, counted on her, were reduced and withered and she watched and watched, encased by her glass jar, on the inside looking out, unable to touch them. Until she could stand it no longer, the pressure inside her built to a crescendo of agony and so she screamed. Summer screamed and screamed and screamed herself hoarse and in the silence that followed, the little girl of Summer whispered inside her. The girl in the white hat, her face covered in sweet sticky chocolate ice cream, melting in the cone. The girl who’d run through the Poppy fields, arms flailing, legs beating so fast that she almost felt like she was flying, the girl who’d flown the rainbow kite, it dancing in the sky, performing its own ballet above her. That girl whispered to her that,
‘All is not lost, I’m still here, you’ve found me again. I am the still small voice, whose light can pierce the darkness, I am the truth of you within. I am you and I am here always. Find me.’
Picturing that girl, in her yellow muslin gown and straw hat, fingers covered in strawberry juice, knees grazed from clambering up rock faces and climbing trees, Summer giggled. Then Summer giggled again, louder, louder and louder still. Until her laughter pierced the glass and a crack appeared, small at first. Summer giggled some more, until the giggle turned into raucous laughter, the kind from deep within her belly, it erupted in huge chortles, flooding out of her and the crack expanded. What started as giggling was now guffawing and the laughter sound waves hit the glass hard, bashing against it like a joyful sledge hammer and it smashed. It exploded open and Summer came rushing out, carried on the wave of hilarity, she flooded the earth and the earth embraced her once more.
She flowed through every nook and cranny, through every gnarled tree trunk and dried grass blade, through every flower root, that had been asleep in the soil and through the babbling, murmuring brook, once frozen, now thawed. She woke the hibernating badgers and hedgehogs and the scrawny foxes began their canny hunts once again. Summer saturated the earth with her being, with her all, with her essence and she was free. Summer soaked the Earth, until it was full, completely full, she soaked the earth until there was no longer room, no longer room for Winter.
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