Season Teller

A long dining table that separated us stood in the middle of the living room, nobly shining its dark oak origin and fine skills of its craftsman. Full of blinding snow, the only light was coming out from the window behind his back.

He tilted his top hat.

‘So. I suppose you know about the four seasons?’

The echo rang through the room, shaking some plates in their glassed shelves.

‘Ahh! You don’t know a thing!’

‘I do.’ I shouted.

The echo jumped back at him.

‘In spring, a flower is born. It blooms in summer and gives to the bees its nectar. In fall it sprays its seeds and lets new flowers to emerge next spring. And then it is gone. The snow buries its body below it.’

Suddenly, wind gushed into the living room, breaking window’s lock. I hid my face from the icy breath of father cold. The dark silhouette of my conversationalist was gone. I stood in front of the window, getting presently numb. New-found top hat turned out to be my size.

Someone walked into the room.

‘Who are you?’

I locked the window and said:

‘Do you know about the four seasons?’