Winter sighs as her raven black hair cascades down the side of her face just like oil. Her monochromatic clothing reflecting the black and white polaroids families and friends like to take on the holidays. The warm brown scarf she dawns melting into the cup of coffee one might crave after a long day of work. Though Winter—Winter works for a seemingly prolonged period of time near the end of the year. This period, although occasionally solemn, brings warmth to many and in turn warmth to Winter.
The snap, crackle, pop of one's fire place is Winter's honey-like laugh on one of her more happy days. The marshmallows one drops into their hot cocoa to warm up on a particularly cold night are Winter's welcoming dimples. Some nights, when there is rain, Winter shares just a little of her weakness. But with this unintentional slip of melancholy sadness, Winter flits amongst us with a cold crisp cloak to envelop us with this tid-bit of sadness. A sign that she cares more than she lets on—as we all need a speck of blue some time during the season that seems all too happy—even for Winter herself.
YOU ARE READING
Winter, was it?
Short Story[2nd place in the Melancholy Awards] And just like that, Winter had ceased to be a part of my life. " They say the mind may, but the heart never forgets. " ©2017 MINHTEA
