Winter was a time of mourning for Mrs. Baker.
Inside her slippers, the woman wiggled her toes in a failed attempt to regain the feeling that had left them moments before. Though the absorbent, fluffy shoes would soon soak and freeze with melted snow, she tugged her warm bathrobe tighter around her and continued her procession into the barren garden.
Fall had ended quickly that year. The exquisite flame-like dance of foliage falling from her beloved oak tree had begun the phoenix’s death that followed. The apples of the orchard, turned golden with the rays of sun, had dropped to the ground and rotted black, leaving it’s mother’s branches feeling naked.
Even prior to the great flurry of red, yellow, and orange, the creatures residing in the small paradise prepared their goodbyes. Then, the birds, flown to warmer nests, and the squirrels, tucked away, had left the haven as a silent cemetery. They stole the bustling color of the place and stored it in their hearts until spring. Without them, the world only came to Mrs. Baker in shades of white, gray, and death; in creaks, moans, and echoes instead of the rich melodies of songbirds that carried through the garden; in ice and snow, rather than warmth and roses.
Mrs. Baker ran a gentle hand over the brittle branches, caressing away the snow, and sucking in a breath that stung her nose with the cold. Several twigs snapped when they made contact with her wedding ring. She tugged her hand back, whispering an apology to the tree, which merely bent sleepily with the breeze in response. And the flowers, azaleas, daisies, lilies, survived only by their children, which were to be born long after their deaths had been wiped clean from the memory of the earth.
Mrs. Baker bit her lip, gazing down at the silver band around her finger. Yes, she closed her eyes tightly, a cemetery, indeed. Tears left a glistening trail down her flushed cheeks.
Winter was a time of mourning for Mrs. Baker, and a time for patience, for even she knew her garden’s resurrection was only a few blizzards away. At this, the gardener’s lips pulled upwards into a solemn smile, and she returned to the warmth of the hearth, removing her cold, wet slippers.
That spring, the phoenix was rebirthed from its ashes.
