Spring

“Wake up, sweet child. It’s time to dress.”

She stirs her daughter from a peaceful slumber to let her know that time has come.

“But Papa?” the child wonders. “What about Papa? Won’t he be mad? Won’t he say it’s still his turn?”

“Papa is tired,” Mother tells her. “He’s ready to rest now.”

She’s confused, the little girl. Mother doesn’t blame her. She can see that the land is still covered in white, and how the trees still look like giant marshmallows. She felt last night's storm.

The child so young, yet wise beyond her time. It is too soon; much too soon. But the world has changed. It’s not like it was in her elder sisters’ time, and will change again before her younger sisters’ time. The child doesn’t realize that last night’s storm was Papa’s swan song. He is weak and growing more tired with every cycle of seasons.

The land may be covered in a fluffy blanket of white today, but underneath, blades of green are stirring, eager to poke their heads out into the cool air. Birds are singing in the distance. Temperatures are rising.

Humans are spending more time outside. They’re laughing. They’re having fun. They’re chattering joyously of yet another early spring.

“But don’t they know it’s too soon, mama?” she asks, with a look of concern that should never appear on a face so innocent.

“Yes, my child," Mother replies. "Unfortunately, they do.”