The Beginning and End of Seasons - by Taylee Fromm

And with the passing seasons go

Your life, your youth, your heart, and soul.

Although you know and understand

That someday it will be the end

You do not think of finished life

Because you know it won’t be for a time.

The second you are born is the second you start dying. With every second, every minute, every hour your life continues on, you get that much closer to the time when you will exist no more in this world except for in a memory. But it’s not just you; it is every living, breathing creature on the Earth that experiences this death. It’s the death that lasts your entire lifetime, and your heart slowly but surely ticks down…tick…tock…tick…tock. One of the hardest things about living is that you never know when your time is up in this world; you never know when your heart will stop ticking down. As the seasons come and go every year, so does your life and soul.

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It had just finished raining out, and you could still smell the rain and feel the moist drops floating in the morning air. The sun was just rising over the big, grassy hill, and you are holding your hand up to your eyes, squinting and staring at the giant ball of light that rose and set every day. You stare and stare, and when you finally look away you close your stinging eyes but can still see the circle of light against your pitch black eyelids.

You want to run, just to run. It just seems like the fun and right thing to do at the time. You run and run and run and dive onto the soft, damp grass before falling into an exhausted pile on the still wet ground. Wet drops of the freshly fallen rain are collected like pebbles on every last blade of grass, and you feel them soaking into your clothes and your hair, drenching you down to the last inch as if you had just jumped into a swimming pool.

Looking up there is nothing but pale blue sky with the dark rain clouds in the distance, being swirled and twirled and pushed by the high sky winds. Flowers surround every side of you, some refreshed and rejuvenated by the cool spring rain, but some still wilted and brown on the edges of the leaves. Although some are just blossoming, some look as though they are about ready to die, either from the harsh wind or the lack of needed water. Though some of the flowers are starting a new life and blossoming fully, some are almost to the end of their time. But the flowers don’t know if they are dying or not; they just live the way nature intends them to. You, of course, don’t think about the life or death of the flowers. You just look and smile because some of the flowers are bright yellow, some are red, and some are hot pink, your favorite color. In fact, you smile because you don’t know about life and death; you just know that you are here.

The beginning is the most beautiful, because it’s a clean slate. You do not know that you won’t remember every single second of what happens to you in the beginning, only the little pictures that flash through your head ever so often as you think back on different events. To be young is to be free; to be young is to dream and to dream with your whole heart. That’s the difference between the beginning, the middle, and the end: in the beginning, there are no rules. You have your entire life before you, and that’s the beauty of being young. There is no concept of death or life, but simply the idea that right now is life. The rest will come later, and you know you have all of the time in the universe.

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You walk along a long grassy field, reaching out and softly touching and grabbing the mature wheat blades, noticing how although the tips are smooth, there is also a rough feeling to them. In a way, that is kind of like your life; smooth in the way it is flowing forward, yet at the same time rough along the edges. You realize that even though something is beautiful and smooth, that does not mean there is no rough patches or flaws. Like the way the warm summer wind ripples every wheat strand in perfect motion, so has your life been moving forward in perfect sync of destiny, and with every blade that is affected so is another. Unfortunately, there is no warm summer breeze this afternoon, so you do not think about your life being intertwined with everyone else’s. You just wish that there was a breeze or a slight rain so you’re not so scorching hot. You think about your dreams and your future ahead. Life is going by quickly, and now you are trying to focus on your plans of the future. Even though you are unsure of what lies ahead of you, at least you know you have a lot of time left.

Your walking is stifled by the hot, dry air. Even though you are wearing lose clothes to keep the air flowing throughout and over your skin, you cannot help but feel the sticky sweat that accumulates out of every last pore as it tries to cool your overheated body. You stop walking and lift up your arms in hope that some sort of miraculous breeze will start blowing, relieving you from this natural sauna. As you lift up your arm you can’t help but notice the sweat that is accumulated in droplets against the backdrop of healthy tanned skin, firm without a hint of age except for the small scars of scrapes and cuts from your faded childhood. You do not think about the scars that are to come; only the injuries that have happened and the great things to come. The good thing about being in the middle is you still have time to live. But you do not need to worry about that, because life is now. The rest will come later, and you know you have all the time in the universe.

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You are sitting on your soft couch with your elbow propped up on a pillow, your weary head resting on your outspread hand. You are watching your older daughter playing with your young son. They are gathering the pounds of leaves on the ground, making piles that come up to their wastes, grabbing each other’s hand, then counting One, Two, THREE before jumping into the pile and scattering the leaves once again. You can’t help but smile as they laugh and play, finally flopping on their backs from exhaustion and staring up at the sky through the leaves, still grinning. In a way, you feel a jealousy towards the youth they still have. You wish you could feel the excitement of Halloween and smell the spices of pumpkins and apples, but those senses have dulled like the years.

The trees that surround your house are tired and worn out, like they are waiting for this world of losing everything they have to offer to finally be over. You wish you were those trees on that sweet autumn day; even though the trees’ entire worlds are about to come to an abrupt halt with the first winter freeze, they get to start completely over in the upcoming spring. The trees could come back bigger and more refreshed than ever before, with new beautiful leaves and new beautiful fruit. That may have been the case with you when you were younger, but that is not so anymore. You have gotten past the point where every year that goes by brings a new fulfillment of your life, soul, and body. Every passing day is your slow declinement. But you do not think about that. You do not realize the crow’s feet that have been creeping steadily from the corners of your eyes. You do not notice your skin getting more and looser and the months wear on. The only thing you do notice is that you are constantly hearing about the deaths of people you know or knew, their life spans going to zero. People who are your age. You do not think about this, but instead think about the time that you have left. Life is now. The rest will come later. And you know you have many more years ahead. All the time in the universe.

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You stare blankly at your television. You squint unsurely through your thick glasses, opening and closing them habitually, trying to make the people and the pictures come into focus. Even if you could see, you could not hear anything they were saying. So you take the remote, spend a minute or two studying the buttons, and finally turn the up the volume so you can hear the newsman. You don’t understand much of what he’s talking about, but still stare at the screen with an intense look on your face and a need in your heart to understand, just so you can understand something.

It is snowing outside of your window. Big, flakey flakes. You think you heard the newsman say that it was going to snow a lot tonight and that it would be deathly cold. That’s probably why the nurse had dressed you in this red sweater. You did not want to wear the sweater because you don’t even like red that much. It was itchy, too.

Your daughter said she would come visit you today. What was her name again? Diane? But what are their names…Maybe it was your husband that was coming to see you today. No, that couldn’t be it…he died in April. Or was it June…

The nurse walks in to check on you. She brings you hot soup because it is so cold outside. You just glance at her, then back at the TV.

“How are you today, sweetheart?” She says cheerfully with a big, white smile.

You glare back. “Who are you?”

“I’m Lily, sweetie. I bring you lunch every day. Why don’t you take a bite of your soup?”

“No I don’t know who you are. Where am I?” Tears start to well up in your eyes. Who was the woman? How did you even get here?

Angry tears start running down your cheeks. You lift up your glasses and try to wipe them away with your crooked fingers. You are now crying uncontrollably.

“How did I GET here?” You were 4, running through the grass after a spring rain again. You were 22, walking along a wheat field thinking about your hopes and dreams again. You were 43, watching your children grow and play again. And now your 79, wondering where your whole life has gone. Life has gone by too fast. Life was. Hopefully, you will have some time left.

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You go and see your mom. There is a bouquet of flowers you brought in to make the nursing home feel more like home. She had moved in there when your dad had died and her dementia has gotten worse. Although some of the flowers are just blossoming, some look as though they are about ready to die, either from the harsh wind or the lack of needed water. Though some of the flowers are starting a new life and blossoming fully, some are almost to the end of their time. But the flowers don’t know if they are dying or not; they just live the way nature intends them to. You, of course, don’t think about the life or death of the flowers. They do not know they are dying or how much time they have left. The way your mom does not know. But you do not think about that. You think about the time she has left and the time you have left. You do not think about the day she will be gone. You think she has all the time in the universe, just as you do.

When you arrived, your mom was crying and asking the nurse who she was and where she was. The nurse was just patting her back, saying, “There, there” in a soothing voice. Your mom then spotted you in the doorway, and tried desperately to remember your name. The hardest part of your mom’s illness is the fact that she can’t remember your name. Her own daughter. After calming her down, you tuck her into her bed. You are leaving, and she tries to ask you why she is here and why she wasn’t young anymore. Where was her life? She knew she had so much time left. You just nod because you know it’s just her dementia. You leave, giving here one last goodnight kiss. Hopefully, you think, we all have time left.

Now spring has passed and summer too

And fall and winter came too soon

Green turned gold and gold turned white

Awake you from this dreamless night.

You wish and pray, but all you get

Is time, lost time, age, and regret.

Now here you lay, your time is done,

Your gone just like the leaving sun.

Time was too short, you didn’t live yet,

But seasons don’t care; it’s your time to set.