The Sensations of Seasons
by Hunter Jordan Purvis
The Touch of Fall
That morning, my pillow was soft and warm. The thin layer of fleece covering my blanket felt like the soft feather of a bird. As I went to make my coffee; my feet moved from the soft and warm blanket to the cold hard wood floor. The flavor of the day was pumpkin spice without the pumpkin or the spice, so basically just hot liquid that burns the lips. The warmth of the hot liquid expanded through the cup to my hands and a cold breeze blew up my pajamas. I was left with a simultaneously cold and warm sensation; like that of a mouth full of hot sweet potato casserole and cold vanilla ice cream.
The Smell of Spring
That morning, my pillow had a mild sweet scent of pollen, but that scent was suddenly overtaken by the smell of a fresh brew of coffee and baked bacon. However, that sensation didn’t last very long. As I made my way to the barn, I was bombarded by a cluster bomb of aromatize flowers. A sweet smell that slowly faded into the stench of the ungodly combination of pesticides and fertilizer. I built a high tolerance to the bad smells as well as the cyclical nature of smells, but I was never prepared for the end of all redolence.
The Taste of Summer
That morning, my pillow tasted like salty sweat. I made my favorite flavor of coffee, artificial hazelnut with lots and lots of cream and sugar. The taste was so sweet. I somehow managed to eliminate all the bitterness from that cup of joe. Now I just need to figure out a way to eliminate all the bitterness from my heart, but how can I do that without being able to taste the pleasures of life anymore.
The Sound of Winter
That morning, my pillow sounded fuzzy, like the subtle sound of my doctor rubbing his fingers close to my ear. The roosters crowed and the birds sung. Somehow, someway, the clock’s ticks and the coffee maker’s last drips synchronized. My wife placed the coffee in my hand, and she said “Here is your coffee. I made it just like you use to.” Then she sung my favorite Christmas carol for the last time.
The Senseless Season
I know not what season it is, nor do I know the time of day. All I know is that during that ellipsis of time, the only sounds I heard were the thoughts in my head. The only taste I tasted was the stale and bland flavor of blankness. The only touch I felt was the empty embrace of a windless day. The only fragrance I smelled was the oxygen entering my nose. The only sight I saw were images passing over a black background; some took the form of memories, some of pure imagination, and others of involuntary dreams.