She taught me how to taste summer. When it was hotter inside than out, that was just an excuse to run through sprinklers and make it rain with the hose. Watermelon was ambrosia. It didn’t matter that we built our sandcastles too close to the waves because the sea was a monster for sand princes to fight. We never ate picnics on a checkered blanket because that was our flag, a symbol of how effortlessly we conquered the day. Reckless was our middle name, leading us into park fountains and through fancy restaurants in bathing suits.
That July I learned how to surf. She already knew, of course, and I made her laugh so hard she fell off her board. That moment tasted like strawberries and salt water, and I endeavored to do it again.
We went to the faire. She got a henna tattoo on her stomach and spent the rest of the day with her shirt pulled up. I was coerced into getting my ear pierced, and that was sharp but not so painful. We went on all the rides, even though I was always terrified they were going to fall apart while we were on. She told me that was part of the fun. We split a funnel cake, and it was the sweetest one I’d ever had.
Summer was the best of the seasons, she said. It was the rebellious teenage years when you’re invincible and nothing bad lasts longer than a day. Every time the salty ocean crashed over our heads it cleansed us, erasing all the little sins. It left her glowing. We spent car rides with the top down even though there would be a rat’s nest on our head by the end of it. Sunsets lasted for hours, and everything had a hundred colors. Colors tasted the best out of everything.
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She called autumn The Fall, as if we’re some great Homeric creatures nearing the end of our story. The world knew it should be getting colder, but couldn’t seem to let go of warmth and delight. Work began to outweigh play, and we gathered for the winter. She said it was the saddest time of the year, when the colors faded and everything dried up and grew smaller. The little signs of life, like birds in the morning and squirrels in the parks, disappeared. She said the melancholy was not because they were leaving, but because they had to say good-bye. Then she told me that good-byes are not said with words or farewell hugs, but with the promise of seeing one another again.
That September I learned how to start a bonfire. She taught me how to build a wooden pyramid and light the match within. I realized that it mirrored something inside myself, a concentrated warmth kept safe in a white cage.
We went to museums. All she knew about art pieces was whatever the plaque underneath them said. But art wasn’t about knowing who put paint on the paintbrush or how many years ago they died. What mattered was the meaning, the message. She was in awe of everything she laid eyes on, from bright Raphaels, to harsh Caravaggios, to the depth of Roudin and facets of Picasso. I was in awe of her.
The Fall was a transformation I watched from the outside—the grateful divorce of the leaves and the trees, the bitterness born in on winds that grow colder with each day, the clouds that hovered at the edge of our consciousness, waiting patiently for their time. I could not envelop myself in the sadness of The Fall, because she was there, clouding my mind.
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Winter was limbo. It wasn’t death because there was no despair. It couldn’t be life because nothing breathed. The world was frozen at the end of a sigh, delicate and precarious. We seemed to see everything with a strange sort of clarity, but the cold would burn our eyes if we looked too long. Scarves muffled our mouths every time we went out so our breaths wouldn’t disturb the still. When snow fell, it came silently, sneaking towards the gray ground and pouncing softly until the city was entirely under its spell. Inside, we shared blankets as the hot chocolate in our hands drew abstract patterns in midair.
That January I learned how to sculpt. Sort of. She wanted to learn, and I ended up chipping away with my tools and calling it abstract. It was better to watch her brow wrinkle and wonder if she was going to bite off the tongue that was slipping between her teeth.
We went to a cabin in the mountains. It had one bedroom, a fireplace, and a huge soft rug. It was perfect. For those two weeks we were the only people on the planet, lost in a white and green universe. We became the very essence of winter, and discovered how to stand as still as evergreens or shift as silently as snowflakes. For the first time in months we slept as soundly as the grizzly bears that were hibernating close by.
Winter was forever in a moment. A season cloaked in quiet and silk. It was a time to turn inwards, to delve into your own mysteries and seek a new understanding of yourself. We were content with every day, every minute, every long, spacious second. We were alone in each others’ company, speaking only when the silence choked us. The bones of the earth reached towards heaven, yearning to be whole again, and we watched without judgment. Emotion tingled at the base of our skulls then flitted away, fearing to touch the cold. I had been standing at the edge of a cliff, I realized, and when time began again, I went tumbling over the edge.
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During spring we were reborn. The city yawned like a rising sun, sluggish and bleary eyed. Everything looked brighter, fresher, fuller. The air itself was crisp with blooming flowers. We were newborns, wide eyed and dazzled. It was like we were seeing the entire world for the first time, and it shined. We were awestruck by all the things we had seen a million times before. We showed our ankles for the first time in months and turned pirouettes in the streets. Warm rains flushed our minds clean, sweeping us into a new beginning.
That April I learned how to care for another life. She bought me a fish for my birthday, smiling when she said I needed to start small. I named him something profound, and he swam quite contentedly in his small glass bowl. He was a spot of shimmering violet in the simplicity of the water, like a piece of modern art. Five weeks later he made the journey to a new home through the twisting pathways of my plumbing. In those brief moments of desolation I considered the idea that I should never be responsible for another person’s soul. When I told her, she laughed.
We went boating. Her uncle owned a small speed boat, with soft leather seats and a polished wood steering wheel. Even though the sun was shining we bundled up so the wind didn’t whip us raw. She made me drive so she could stand at the front, arms spread wide, her laughter floating back to me. She stood on the seats, shins against the railing, just because I couldn’t stop her.
Spring was life. New life, the kind that peeks hesitantly into the world, staring with apprehension. Little blossoms bared themselves to the sun for the first time, wriggling with delight at the warmth that kissed them. The past didn’t matter; it was a little smear on a great masterpiece, barely noticeable when we stood far enough away. She said we were a fairytale come true, complete with singing animals, beautiful dresses, and how the guy always gets the girl. Then she kissed me and I believed every word of it.
