-seasons-

*implications of depression / suicide*

It's me. It's been a while.

A year ago, maybe I would have said the tree is beautiful. It is a maple, dressed in fresh, dappling sunlight that penetrates its branches, illuminating the blood red leaves into a fiery light. Its knobby arms stretch into the sky, grasping as far as they can, searching for more than they have, a bird's spirit stuck in a tree's body. And with each leaf that falls, a piece of that spirit is released into the crisp autumn air.

Now that you're gone I just see a tree. The leaves are red because it is fall. I watch as a slight breeze tears a leaf from its precariously dainty grasp on a branch, the frond thrashing and flipping in the wind before settling crisply on the ground. It scraunches beneath my shoe as I walk away, my thoughts of you chilling.

Back before you were gone, I would have said the snow is crisp, clean and fresh through the chilled windows. It rests upon the ground like a feathery pillow, so welcoming and soft. Its substance is made of part and whole, scattered but gathered, streaked and smooth. The asymmetrical snow petals fall obliquely in a diffusion of flurries into soft piles against each other. They are at rest, shimmering beneath the sun's apricity.

But it is after you left, so I see the dull gray that hides beneath the beauty. I feel the bitter sizzle of the wind hitting the window. The snow is winter's sheath. It hides the true acerbity that the earth's hibernal brume brings. The only remaining plants are cauldrife, brittle, and bare, and the world is lifeless, like you are. Why is it that everything I feel is somehow wrong?

I was younger than I am now when you took yourself away from me. More naive, less retained. I was happy. Now I am not. First there was the disbelief, that this couldn't be happening, because you cared about me. That led to the doubt, confusion, denial, blame. Didn't you love me? Could I have stopped you? And the one that hurt the most. Was this my fault? Yeah. I spent a long time on that one. Then there was anger. How could you do this to me? How could you leave me here, alone, desperate? I needed you. You left me. Deep down I understood. But I couldn't admit that, because it felt better to let myself feel the pain I thought I had to feel.

The snow falls in a horizontal haze, enveloping my unheard screams. I suffer without you in silence, no one hears me, you were the only one who ever did. Who ever will.

Before you departed, I would have said spring is happy. As the supercilious winter fades away into a new maturation of life, the verdant, wind-flattered grass billows like emerald waterfalls as bees dart here and there. Birds carol songs of joy and pleasure, and delectably warm breezes carry a subtly sweet and fresh scent. Bubbly infant animals explore, with wobbly legs, fresh, glistening eyes, and meek little warbles that are intended to be, and one day will be, royal calls to their family.

But of course, since you're gone, spring just shows me the slow but impending, unavoidable, ever so present passing of time. One more winter over, now I'm dreading the next one. The young, bright animals wandering the world will grow up too soon to become the habitual adults, mothers and fathers of their descendants. If only they knew that their cycle - everything they know, and will ever know - will all end some day.

The therapist ineffectively stated that depression is a villain in this world, and that that villain convinced you you shouldn't be here anymore. I retorted that I would have slayed the villain for you if I had known about it. Why didn't you tell me? I don't understand. I miss you. Please come back.

The rain is different from the others. Maybe because rain is not a season, it does not remind me of yet another phase of life you will not be there for, rain is not permanent- rain comes and goes as does the tide, wind, and clouds. So it feels the same as before. The smell of petrichor has not changed, nor has the bone-chilling quietness of the world when water drizzles from the sky. The gray tint hovers, surrounding, resting, staying. The dull, serene sky is a blur of nothing, a void, as drops pitter-patter onto the earth. Pearlescent shimmers fill the sky like the glistening fins of a leaping fish, there and then gone in a mere moment, like you, like all good things. A deer freezes as she sees me, her brown eyes bulging like muddy full moons, and then she is gone into the brush. The heavy, soil-like scent encases my senses, the pelting of drops numbing my skin, and I allow myself to breathe for the first time in a while. I have room now. I am free.

I sigh.

I guess I'm writing this to tell you that I miss you, but I know now that's okay. You won't see this, and that's okay too. But I've let you go. I understand now that some things in life are not permanent- your feelings, perspectives, thoughts, even the stable things in life that you thought were your rocks- they can change. And the only way to get through those changes is to accept them. Sit back and watch as they morph your life into something new, different, beautiful in its own, imperfect way.

The sunset is orange tonight. Your favorite color. It is opalescent, filled with vibrant pinks, oranges, purples, and reds. They are deep, dimensional colors that seem as though they could be reached into, painted with, engulfing you, and engulfing me, our kindred spirits one and the same, even though you are far beyond me. I glance down and pick at a piece of grass, peeling it along the ridged strands of leafy texture. The tangy, pleasantly juicy scent of its secretions reaches my nose, as the moisture leaks into the underneath of my fingernails, tinting them a pale green. I look back up. The sunset is gone, replaced by a washed-out gray-purple with scattered freckles of stars.

But I don't mind that it's gone. It was good while it lasted. And I know I'll see it again someday.