Winter is coming. Your Dog opens his mouth and the song of a bird comes out. Every year he becomes a sparrow and flies to Florida to flounce Snow. Snow is a cold-hearted woman who had a deadly ex-relationship with your dog. This year, when he takes flight he takes you along on his back and you feel like the favorite child. You grab onto his flank, sit unsaddled with your head in the clouds, for once head in the clouds is an achievement, not an insult towards your tendency for distraction.
You and your Dog spend the winter sipping mimosas and playing tennis and already you know this will be one of your fondest seasons.
“This will be one of my fondest seasons,” you tell your Dog and he chirps his agreement.
Months later, Spring, who also happens to be your closest childhood friend, doesn’t show up for the fourth year in a row, letting the slick-eyed Winter slip into the burning, flirting mess of Summer. You see on social media that Spring is in Detroit at a music festival in a light coat with a blunt in one hand and a lover in the palm of her other.
For once you are not offended, you sit in Summer’s lap and flirt back. The sweat shining over your peach fuzz is like the green light of a traffic signal and your laugh is wide, exposing the deep of your molars where the mimosas have taken mortgages out on your enamel.
It is Fall when you trip in your new plaid skirt, and your butt cheeks reveal themselves to the autumnal breeze and everyone sees you have a tattoo portrait of Spring on the left flab. Spring, who still hasn’t called you back but who looks too good in pink ink to get a cover up done.
You’ve scraped your knees and your elbows and all up your back and you bleed the colors of changing leaves, red and orange and a little brown too. For once you are not embarrassed, you fix your skirt and run your fingers through the blood puddles like you are playing in a sandbox.
It is Winter again when your Dog says his back is too old to carry you this year, but you can take a flight and meet him down there if you’d like. He knows that you have an allergy to metal and small airplane T.V.s. And you know that really he wants to sit and play poker with friends his age, so instead you shrink down and sit in a hot cup of tea in your cold room and trace the band-aids you’ve stuck on yourself to stop the bleeding last season and you decide to start taking care of yourself (for once.)
And now it would be Spring again if Spring came, but she never does, so it is the breath after Winter and before Summer texts you to hook up, when you start peeling off band-aid after band-aid from your body, dropping the pus filled cotton to mingle with your carpet.
And for once the band-aids do not gnash teeth with your skin underneath. They are taking flight like retired dogs and for once the wound has crusted over into baby’s skin which looks up at you with your eyes and drools a little and for once you aren’t missing or waiting on anyone and you feel that for once a new season has come, one you have yet to name or get to know or be betrayed by.
By day Angelica Whitehorne writes for the Development department of a refugee organization in New York. By night she writes her poetry and stories with her 10 plants as backdrop and her future on her tongue. She has forthcoming work in the North Dakota Quarterly, Ruminate, Hooligan Magazine, Oyster River Pages, Magnolia Review, Wingless Dreamer, Door Is A Jar, Crack the Spine, Dissenting Voices, Breadcrumbs Magazine, Neon Mariposa and Amethyst Review.