The Season of the Swan

On the morning of September 22, a freight train smashed into Autumn’s reality.

At the bottom of the mahogany wooden stairs, she yelled, “Mom! Where are my running shoes? I thought I left them in the car, but I can’t find them.”

Shaking her head, after waiting for a response, Autumn put on her sister’s running shoes. “I’ll deal with that drama later,” she thought to herself.

On the first day fall, the minty air brushed against Autumn’s skin as she walked out of her house. Fall was the season she waited for annually. Instead of flowers blossoming in the spring, Autumn was painted with the thriving colors of the fall leaves. It was in her name after all.

But this long-awaited breeze felt different, as if there were a weather machine controlling the dimension in which she lived in. One that warped the very season that Autumn prayed for. It was supposed to be her time.

As she continued down the suburban street, one that she could map out even if a blindfold was glued on, she thought, “Even if it doesn’t feel like fall, it looks like it...so what is wrong with me?”

Being named after a season carried its own peculiar challenges, one might think; however, Autumn saw it differently.

“This is supposed to be my season... my season,” was the mantra she carried as she trudged along trying to figure out what was going on.

At that exact moment, she noticed something white and gleaming poking out of the willow tree that hugged her peripheral. It made her halt, and she immediately forgot about the thick sea of doubt she was drowning in. Autumn turned around, curiosity beginning to wash over her, and made her way over. As she got closer, the white object began to slowly move.

“We don’t have bunnies around here, maybe someone lost their pet? Poor thing,” she thought as she entered the chamber of willow leaves. She was now breaching the line of no return, becoming a few feet away from the textured white object.

“I really need to wear my glasses more, this is actually a hazard,” Autumn said while trying to creep like she was approaching a skittish wild animal.

“Maybe...if you did you could see what lies ahead of you,” a high-pitched voice said as if it was dancing along the fence of singing and just plainly talking.

Autumn whipped around, with her auburn hair flying behind her. “Who said that? Who’s there?” she frantically said. Never would she put herself in a chess match with the unknown.

“How can you expect to see clearly if you don’t even set yourself up for success?” the voice shimmered like it was the only star on a vastly dark night, except it came from the direction of the ground.

Autumn finally turned forward like she was originally, only to find a white swan standing before her and leaning up against the willow tree’s trunk. The noise that came from Autumn was reminiscent of a kitten being picked up by a claw machine of a toddler. This swan was the most beautiful creature she had ever seen. Its feathers were smooth like the first string of silk ever spun. Its black masked beak was as if the swan was attending a mysterious masquerade ball, attempting to disguise its true intentions.

“Did you just ta – Am I crazy? I knew it felt weirdly off tod – Am I going crazy?” Autumn’s breathing began constricting with each word she said.

“Who defines crazy? Is it a society that has forged its own rules, standards, and seasons from pure imagination? Now that sounds quite preposterous to me,” the swan sung as its head nodded vertically. It was as if it was agreeing with its own philosophical thoughts.

“How did you end up here and where on earth did you come from talking like that?” Autumn allowed the unusualness to provoke her interest.

The swan expanded its wings as if it was creating its own oceanic horizon, solely to just fly closer to Autumn.

But for some reason, this did not faze her, instead it intrigued her even more.

“Where did you come from? You certainly were not born from a season, so why is it that you let Autumn possess all the power over you, Autumn?” The swan said as its eyes began to pierce with a burning sense of truth.

“How do you know my na – You don’t know a single thing about me, you are just some deranged animal,” Autumn said trying to step into the boxing ring of passion that this atmosphere had gradually built.

“Who is more of a simple animal? A girl who waits for only one season that the world so conveniently creates? Or a swan who acknowledges that there are seasons, but doesn’t let them place restrictions and instead molds them into my own personal clay pots of possibilities?” said the swan, but now its face is painted with nothing but sympathy.

Something within Autumn wanted to cry years' worth of unknown and forgotten tears. Something that the swan had said made her feel an emotional release from burdened, charred chains. She knew.

“What’s done is done now, and for your own good, I can’t undo it, I simply will not” The swan said as it came closer to Autumn once again. It began to nuzzle its head against her thigh, like it did the willow tree’s trunk.

She felt nothing but loved, understood, and most importantly seen. Her hand made its way to the swan's head, and just by stroking it, she felt those feelings amplify. It started in her fingertips then traveled to her beating heart, pure warmth.

In that moment, the swan stepped away and spread its horizon, reaching its wings out. It gave Autumn one last knowing look, before taking flight up the brooding trunk that housed the branches that secluded this moment from the rest of the world.

“Wait! I never got your nam-” Autumn yelled as she ran after the swan and looked up at the whimsical tree, just to find it disappeared in the air that felt like it was beginning to bite back.

Autumn had no idea what had just happened, but what she does know now is - “Seasons in life are purely non-existent.”