In Africa, Spring is not muddy,
Spring is triumphant and glorious.
The wind dares not breathe while bright green buds emerge,
For fear that the lightest breeze could discourage their arrival.

Spring does not rain down.
Spring quenches the red earth with light
Pitter-patters of refreshment,
Feeding the carpet of fresh flowers.

In Africa, the birds do not sing.
They dance.
Dances of celebration for the arrival of little ones;
Dances to shoo away the last winter plumage –
Shaking themselves, ridding themselves of memories of bitter cold.

Bees buzz thickly around soda cans
Sapping up tiny sugary sips,
Threatening the small children whose honey they steal.

In Africa, Spring is not just a season.
It is some queer, choreographed exhibition.

African passion is a dish best served hot
And Spring is 90 ° F.

Spring is a mating dance.
It is nature displaying her worth –
Showing off every inch of her curvaceous profile.
Spring is sweat and gasping for air.

Spring is sticky ice-cream dripping down your bare wrist.
Spring is cola with ice.
Spring is naked slumber.

In Africa, we revel in Spring,
Painting the towns pink and blue.
Worshipping our Persephone,
Celebrating the diversity that is accentuated by the August Spring rays.

But for now, as Winter begins
We pack away our fancy costumes
And prepare for months of icy chill
And relentless bitter cold.

Our Spring celebrations still months away now.
But I can almost taste them.

“Wow! What a nasty night!”

The wind that accompanied this exclamation sent papers skimming across my keyboard like sailboats in a stiff breeze. My arms automatically shot out, trying to pin them down before they escaped over the horizon.

“What are you doing home?” I demanded, slightly irritated. “I thought you had something tonight.”

“Hey, nice to see you too, honey,” Jim joked. “Softball practice was cancelled, so I’m all yours.”

My papers safe and secure, I turned to confront my husband.

“Why was…” My annoyance disappeared as I started laughing.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

Unable to speak, I pointed to the mirror. Jim’s deep laugh soon joined my own. Dressed casually in jeans and a black t-shirt, his thick, black hair tousled by the wind, he was the epitome of manliness – except for the pink flower petals covering his entire body.

“April showers bring May flowers, and May showers bring you a man covered in cherry blossoms,” he joked. He opened his arms wide and I nuzzled into them.

“Any man can bring you flowers, but how many will turn into one for you?” he asked, his eyes sparking with mischief – and the promise of something more.

I reluctantly tore myself from his arms and returned to my desk.

“Sorry, but I have work to do. I thought you’d be at softball practice tonight, so I told Bernice I’d have this opinion finished by morning.” I smiled, trying to soften my rejection. “Maybe, after I get this done, we can pop in a movie or something.”

Disappointment – or was it hurt? – flitted across his face before being replaced by his easy-going smile.

“Sure, no problem,” he said, quickly leaving the room.

I started back on my work, but I couldn’t get Jim’s reaction out of my mind. True, we hadn’t been spending much time together lately, but it wasn’t on purpose. Between our careers and our hobbies, our calendars were perpetually overbooked.

Outside, the wind lashed the rain against the windows, searching for a way into our warm, dry haven. When I’d come home, the sky had been clear, broken only by a few wispy clouds. The bright pink blossoms of our cherry tree had stood out in sharp contrast against the deep blue of the sky, shouting out the glories of spring. But now those delicate petals were being torn from the branches, scattered by this violent storm.

A loud clap of thunder interrupted my reverie, and the lights flickered.

“That one was close,” Jim commented, coming back into the room.

“I wonder if we should get the flashlight – ” The room suddenly plunged into blackness.

“I’ll get the flashlight from the kitchen,” Jim volunteered. I grunted my agreement and stared at my desk. Lightning flashes illuminated the piles of papers, but they were no more than pale shapes stacked around the dark shape of my computer. I watched as Jim came back from the kitchen holding a candle.

“Well, the batteries are dead. Looks like we’ll be living by candlelight tonight,” he said. The flame danced as he spoke, casting living shadows over his face. I noticed that he was looking at me cautiously, as if waiting for something. His gaze darted to my desk, then back to my face.

He’s waiting for me to take the candle and get back to work, I thought.

The rain was still pelting against the windows, and now I could hear the sharp sound of sleet mixing in. I had planned to take a picture of the cherry tree, to capture it forever in full bloom, but I’d been too busy; by tomorrow, the blossoms would be gone and it would be too late.

I slowly smiled.

“So, you’re my own personal flower, huh?” I took his hand and led him towards the kitchen.

“Let’s get some dinner…you’re all mine tonight.”

For a love struck teenager, it was the perfect setting. My arm draped across her shoulders, we sat close together on the couch, looking deeply into each other’s eyes, our lips almost touching. Only one thing could spoil the ambiance. Like an avalanche, my mother’s voice hurtled down the stairs. “Why don’t you kids go outside and play?”

I must have turned ten shades of red from the combined anger and embarrassment, but Jeannie just laughed. “Play? How old does your mom think you are, anyway?” When I didn’t answer, she just smirked, stood up, and pulled me after her. “Come on, let’s go out and play.” The way she said “play” had me off the couch in a heartbeat and we stepped through the front door into a perfect April day.

Spring has always been my favorite time of year, and between the weather and Jeannie’s hand in mine, my outlook quickly improved. Unfortunately, Jeannie didn’t appreciate the season as much as I did. When I stopped to admire the new buds on the maple tree in our front yard, she glibly commented, “It looks like that tree has cancer with all those ugly little growths. Why can’t trees just stay dead anyway? Are they zombies or something? I wonder if trees want to eat my brains.”

I laughed, but I could tell she was partly serious. In a vain attempt to enhance the mood, I held my hands in the air and spun around like a dancer in an old black and white movie. “It’s spring, when a young man’s heart turns to fancy. Look around, Jeannie; life is everywhere. Mother Nature has once again escaped Old Man Winter’s deathly grip “

I was pleased with my flowery, metaphor-laden speech, but Jeannie was not impressed. “So now you’re a Wiccan? It looks to me like Mother Nature and Old Man Winter got together, had a kid, and named him Gray. The sky is gray, the trees are gray, the dirty puddles in the street are gray, and the muddy spots in the yard where grass has died are gray too.” With the last point, she stamped at the ground for emphasis and a small fountain of mud gushed out around her shoe with a squish.

This was becoming a challenge, and I was determined to make her see the splendor of the season. “Jeannie, there’s an entire rainbow out here; you just aren’t looking in the right places.” I pointed to a small patch of sky that was clear of clouds and touched by sunlight. “See, there’s some blue.”

She was unmoved. “Blue-gray.”

Well, maybe the world hadn’t erupted into a rainbow of chromatic brilliance, but I was not about to give up. “You have to use your other senses too. Take a deep breath. Can you smell that?”

She was amused by my persistence, but she continued to play her part. She inhaled deeply. “It smells like worms.” Her face remained stoic, but her eyes betrayed her with a mischievous twinkle.

I had to admit, the recent rain had left the air a bit musty, but I pressed ahead. “Okay. Let’s try another sense. Maybe if we keep quiet you’ll hear the birds singing, or the sound of the breeze in the branches.”

We were silent for about a minute, both straining to hear anything at all. The silence was broken by the squawk of a starling, not quite the song of the bluebird I had hoped for. Jeannie didn’t say a word; she just smiled, and I knew I had lost another battle.

Still, I was resolute. Outwardly, I was the picture of calm, casually glancing around the yard. Inside, though, I was frantic, desperately searching for any vestige that might prove my point. And there it was, in my mother’s garden.

Without speaking, I walked over and plucked the first flower of spring. With a flourish, I presented it to Jeannie. “A pretty for the lady.” She accepted it solemnly, and brought it to her nose. My triumph was at hand. As soon as she breathed in the primrose’s perfume, she would have to capitulate.

Then the light in her eyes flared and the corners of her mouth turned up in a devious grin. Without hesitation, she opened her mouth, and bit the bloom from its stem. Through a mouthful of petals, she declared, “Spring doesn’t taste very good, either.”

“Do you think we’ll get married?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even like girls! … What do you think?”

“I don’t know.”

Charlie and Suzie were lying on their backs in a dazzling red Poppy field, each chewing on a blade of grass, staring skyward. The flowers looked like a red carpet, soft and snug, inviting them to come and take a break. Suzie’s bright yellow dress seemed the perfect accompaniment for such a lovely day. The sky was of a deep blue hue, whilst the prettiest white clouds were arranged throughout. The sun was warm and friendly, pampering the two as they lay there, whilst a light breeze kept them just cool enough not to seek the shade. The perfect Spring day.

Suzie was going to boarding school soon, so the two did not have too much time left. Charlie was not very happy to know that his best friend was leaving. That’s why every moment counted. They both enjoyed their time together.

“Do you hear that?”

A huge shadow shot over them. Charlie was up in a flash, scanning the sky.

“Did you see that?”

“It’s only a plane Charlie.”

“But did you see how fast it whooshed past? Wow! … I wanna see where it’s going!”

Charlie dashed toward the forlorn tree standing on top of the diminutive hill, about a hundred metres away. As he started running, he imagined himself as a world famous athlete, going for the record. That made him put in some extra effort.

“Charlie Johnson, you better not leave me here all alone!” She shouted after him.

“Don’t worry! I’m just gonna watch from the tree!” He shouted whilst running.

He got to the tree in record breaking time (well, according to himself, anyway). He quickly scampered up the tree. It was green and lush, with leaves and branches everywhere. When he got high enough, he turned around to see another plane coming their direction, swooping down very low to the ground.

All of a sudden, he heard deafening blasts and saw the ground exploding in a straight line of dust and flowers. And that line was coming toward Suzie! Fast!

Before he could do anything, the explosions had passed right over where Suzie was and it was just dust everywhere! The plane sped right over the tree, banking hard to the right and then climbing higher! He waited frantically, crying.

He couldn’t hear the plane’s huge engines anymore, so he slowly climbed down the tree, and cautiously proceeded toward where Suzie was. The dust had now settled and the flowers lay everywhere, scattered randomly. She lay so still.

“Suzie (sob) … are you okay? (sob sob) … “

He saw that her dress, wasn’t yellow anymore, but the same colour as the flowers. She still didn’t move or say anything. She was dead.

He got to her and as he knelt by her side she spun around and yelled!

“Aagh!!”

Charles stumbled backward and fell onto the blood-red Poppies. He didn’t know where he was, but the field of flowers felt menacing, as if ready to overwhelm him. He quickly sat up. Then he realised where he was. He looked up at Caroline.

“Honey, you okay?” She softly asked.

“I saw it all happen in front of me. As if I was there again.” He slowly stood up and walked a few steps toward her.

“She died right here.” He pointed at the ground in front of him. “They just mowed her down as if she was nothing!”

“Baby, I’m so sorry.” She whispered, as he crumpled into her arms and started to cry uncontrollably.

As they reached the car and he turned around. “You know, that day the war reached us and that changed me. Spring will never again be anything but death to me.”

She just stood by the side of the car and waited while he stared, trying to be as supportive as possible.

“Lets go home.”

The sleek, black aircraft banked around the rocks at the head of the valley fighting the turbulent gusts. It's passage triggered several small avalanches in the melting snow as it powered through the whiteout.

Around the bend, the turbulence eased and the pilot set down the required fifty meters from the collection of concrete domes surrounded by wind breaks, irrigation pipes, flood ditches, UV filtering reflectors and other equipment needed for anything to grow in the open. As it touched down, the material of the wings flowed into the fuselage turning the aerodynamic shape into a squat dwelling.

A door-ramp lowered into the mud and a figure wearing light armor walked towards the nearest dome, stopping at the burned circle twenty meters away - the trespass kill zone. He waited with rain running down his neck as the dome's occupant trekked across the mud, stopping just inside the zone. Every defense turret in range, moved to target him.

They regarded each other across the scorch-line, the farmer broad, bearded and grizzled, the pilot wiry and with the unmistakable pallor of a hydroponic diet. The pilot gestured to the spiked tube in the farmer's hand.

"Is that a mobile weapon?"
"Non-projectile - an extending spear but you'll find it effective enough if there's any trouble. What brings you here Wanderer? We were just about to batten down for Spring."
"Wanderer?"
"A craft like that and out in this weather, what else would you be? Anyone with a home is riding out the hurricanes and storms. Without plant cover there's nowhere for the energy to go except the weather, only a madman would be out in this."
"Or someone with urgent business."
"We don't do business with the likes of you. Maybe you think if you stick around we'll credit you resources just to get rid of you."
The farmer gestured to a weathered hulk at the base of a cliff, half buried in scree and mud.
"He thought so too. After a few months, he got desperate enough to call our bluff with the defense zone."
"You haven't tried to salvage his ship?"
"We're not stupid and we're not thieves - we would never be allowed to profit from it. If you need parts, plead your case to the web and see if you can get permission."
The farmer pulled a small screen from his pocket, wiped the rain off and moved his fingers across the display. His eyes narrowed.
"Not that it looks like you would get it. Lord, I've never seen anyone withhold so much information! Not even a name - how do you expect anyone to do business with you?"
"The public id is cross-linked with my meta-id. Run it through any threat-assessment algorithm and you will find I come up clean."
"Algorithms! I like to know who I'm talking to."
"You may call me...Sherlock", the pilot consulted a similar screen mounted on his wrist, "Sam Barlow."
The farmer started at his name.
"I never released that information to you! What are you? A hacker?"
"There are no such things as hackers Mr Barlow. You subscribe to the class one emergency algorithm for the common good which gives me access to whatever I need and that is why you will help me. If you wish to un-subscribe and refuse aid, that is of course your right but nobody, and I mean nobody, will ever do business with you again. I know you allow inheritance of property, you're lax on population reduction and indulge numerous other un-sustainable activities which result in very few people choosing to trade with you..."
"The population reduction is an arrogance in the eyes of God! Even with the oxygen deficit, there's enough to last millions of years!"
"Save the arguments, I've heard them before. They work while the climate is relatively stable but within a century, your people will either have to move on, freeze or bake. I'm only here to find out what happened to the Ramsey household."
Once again caught off ballance, the farmer staggered at the name.
"There was an accident with their defenses. Nobody can get into the house. We don't know if they are alive or not."
"Exactly Mr Barlow, and their defenses use the same algorithms as every other household on the planet. That makes finding what went wrong extremely important."
"I'll have to consult with the others and see what they say."
"Fine, in the meantime I'm cold and wet and you can let me know what they decide."
Sherlock stepped over the scorched border and the farmer gave a cry of horror and threw himself into the mud. The turrets continued to track the pilot, their firing instructions overridden. The pilot's footprints filled with water as he walked towards the dome.

As a child, it never occurred to Spring to ask why she was named after a yearly season. By the time she grew old enough to realize the significance of her name, she no longer cared. It reflected her favorite time of the year and pleased her immensely.

Even though she delighted in the many changes that happened at this time of year, she received the most pleasure from the rebirth of abundant and diverse plant life. Each green blade which sliced it’s way quietly through the chill soil promised delight at the time of it’s blooming. Many of the emerging plants looked similar; since she never chose to remember the location of specific plants she was always anxious for the show to play.

It seemed somewhat ironic that the first plants crowding toward the sunlight were the day lilies, even though they bloomed much later. They had obviously used winter to spread and increase in number, perhaps to ensure that although their blooms only lasted for a day they would be admired abundantly.

Among the first to flower were crowds of stocky narcissus, massing together in clusters of yellow. Sometimes a late snow would blanket them and Spring would be concerned about their survival, but when the snow melted, they stood strong and proud, undaunted by the capricious storm.

Spring reveled in wandering the garden each day, searching for stems beginning to swell with buds. Different varieties of jonquils bloomed successively, each trying to prove themselves more hardy and colorful than the previous. The garden was carpeted with short stalks of jaunty grape hyacinth. Their big brothers were fewer but larger, more majestic and boldly fragrant.

She delighted in delicate bluebells, blazing stars, spicy scented iris, delicately fragrant lily of the valley, miniature iris, and so much more. She could easily lose track of time while being enthralled by the profusion of scent and beauty.

The forsythia always amused her by the way it bloomed unexpectedly, the yellow flowers suddenly massed on the bare branches of the bush, anxious to be admired before leaves grew out. In contrast the lilac would be full of foliage before presenting masses of heady scented blooms. Spring would bury her face in the bush, thus enrapturing all of her senses.

It seemed as if spring passed too quickly into summer. Yes, that season had flowers and beauty of it’s own, but to her it never compared to the surprise of spring. And this year it seemed to be happening too quickly, everything seeming to be over in just a day’s time.

Matthew slowly walked from his car to the house. After the funeral followed by the inevitable gathering of family and friends, he knew it was time for the agony of being alone for the first time since the death of his wife. In a way he coveted the solitude after months of watching cancer ravage and then steal life from the body of his beloved. During the time of having many friends and family around to help with her care, and to willingly give emotional support to both of them, he had remained strong, almost stoic in public suppression of his grief.

Although Matthew had never understood Spring’s passion for the season, he had eagerly brought her bulbs and plants, knowing that her rapture would become his delight. In the final days of her illness she had requested her bed be placed by a window where she would anxiously scour the world outside for any trace of her final spring. Matthew had even, at her request, carried her outside to search for any sign of life arriving there even as life was leaving her. Oh how she longed to live long enough to experience this last spring. How cruel it was that cancer had stolen even that from her.

As he neared their porch, against his will he glanced to the garden. What he saw brought a sudden rush of tears and stab of grief to his very soul. He fell to his knees in the muddy earth and watered with tears of pain and agony the first spears of green bravely breaking free of the cold winter earth. It wasn’t fair. He felt an urge to rip the growth from the ground to punish it for appearing too late for Spring to see and delight in it.

Something held him back. The tears dried up as he felt his wife’s presence calming him. He could feel her pleasure as if she were using his senses to absorb the delight of the birth of the season. He knew then that as long as the flowers bloomed in spring, that Spring would bloom in him.

Walking barefoot along the leaf padded forest floor, lost and scared, with such hunger and thirst she never knew before. The sun shone thru the dense swaying forest trees, only small fractions of the golden rays lit parts of her delicate features hidden by tears of anguish.

She found herself in an impossible maze, long thorny branches held her in like a caged animal, cutting and searing her skin like hot knives. A small trickle of blood ran down her cheek, the ground hungrily absorbing any red velvet drops. The thorns clawed and snagged her already tattered and soiled dress that hung from her slender shoulders and hugged the ripe curves of her body. She broke thru her painful enclosure and fell to her knees. Looking up thru her tired blue eyes, a meadow laid out in front of her, with sweet fragrant dew covered daisies swaying in the sun filled breeze. She could smell tender young apple blossoms, lilacs, tulips and many other wild flowers that adorned the land.

Rushing water thundered in her ears as she walked thru the meadow, to an open blue waterfall flowing down into a crystal clear stream licking the land with life. Vibrant mystical rainbows danced about, holding her breath and bestowing awe in her eyes. She let her tattered gown slip down over her ample warm chest, youthful round hips and long slender legs. She carefully stepped into the shimmering cool stream, letting the water playfully lap at her thighs as she waded deeper and deeper, submerging her body into the cool caressing waters. She swam beneath the surface to fully appreciate the liquid gold she found and quench her incredible thirst.

Climbing up to the grassy edge she flung herself down to bask in the warm sunshine that made the land gleam and sparkle. She watched lazy clouds drift by in the breeze, carrying off to destinations unknown. Slipping on her dress, she wandered to some nearby bushes. Berries of nearly every color hung heavily from dozens of bushes. She hungrily divulged herself with sweet strawberries, plump blueberries, and succulent raspberries, which teased her taste buds, sending shivers down her spine.

She sleepily sat and leaned against a smooth boulder. Red breasted robins busily flew back and forth in the sky carrying small twigs and grass for their nests, soon to hold their precious eggs. Her eyelids grew heavy, till at last, she could no longer keep them open and let herself drift into a peaceful sleep.

She was there again, in her warm cozy cabin tucked away in the mountains, busily skinning rabbit and roasting the round rump of a deer over a crackling fire. She was happy by herself, being independent, and only relying on the land to sustain her. That day she had gone down to a lake nearby to gather some water for dinner that night, busily filling her water skins and buckets, she heard some rustling behind her, looking around, nothing out of the ordinary, the long yellow grass meshing together in the breeze, butterflies playing amongst the wildflowers, all was in order in her small little paradise. She heard the rustling again, and before she could turn around, a sharp pain seared across the top of her brow and blackness surrounded her.

Awaking, she found herself shackled to a bed, even her legs bound. Lifting her head caused the room to spin and pain stab at her sore temple. It was dark, only a few dreary shadows she could make out. She heard the rustling again, but this time appeared a shrouded figure. “Let me go!” She demanded with hatred in her eyes. Only silence replied to her needs. “I will get you for this, sorely you will pay!” She cried out. Pain and blackness soon followed once more. Again she awoke, still in her damp and dark hell. She could not understand what was going on, the more she tried, the more her bruised and bloody head hurt.

One thing she knew for certain, was to find a way of escape, she was pretty sure she had been there a few days at least. She was weak from no food or water, but she had to try, not knowing when the dark figure may return and not wishing to learn more of her preditator. With luck she found an old pin in her hair, she managed to pick away at the shackles and furiously untie her feet and make her way to freedom.

She sat upright, still in the small meadow she had found. It was near dusk, everything had a lazy glow in the last hours of light. "I'm here...” a low husky voice echoed across the meadow. Frightened she looked around, searching, only finding two doves soaring above in the darkening sky.

Jim sat alone on a park bench. As the wind gently blew through the weeping willow above him, a branch caressed his shoulder like a loving mother. Jim thought of his mother, his mother whom he loved, whom he missed dearly. She had died just a week ago.

Jim knew he couldn’t stop thinking about her, but at least he could come here to comfort himself. Jim loved nature as much as anything, except for his mom. He could spend hours just sitting there, thinking. Thinking about life, death, anything, while he gazed in awe upon spring’s beauty. A hive of bees buzzed busily in a nearby tree. Jim was startled, but he wasn’t scared. ‘People just don’t understand bees, Jim thought, ‘they’re as much a part of nature as the most beautiful rose. Bees have as much right to live as any other animal, or human for that matter!’ Jim thought of his mother. She had the right to live too, but her life was so cruelly taken from her. Jim didn’t know who had murdered his mother. If only they had stopped to think before…before they pulled the trigger. ‘I’ve got to stop thinking about that,’ Jim thought gloomily.

Spring was Jim’s favorite season, he loved everything about it, from the animals, biding their time searching for food, to the trees, alive with their newly sprouted leaves. He loved it all, but his favorite part was the gloriously colored flowers. Jim walked over to a field full of juicy red roses and royal purple tulips. The colors caused a harsh dissidence, yet it was gorgeous. He sat down in the middle of the field, aiming to become one with the flowers. ‘Flowers are lucky,’ Jim thought. ‘They don’t have anything to worry about, nothing at all. Not life, not death, not anything. They just sit there, soaking up the sun, and, when they're lucky, drinking the rain.’

Just as Jim thought of this, the clouds burst and it small shower began. A raindrop splashed on his face and trickled gently into his mouth. He accepted nature’s offering gladly. ‘Rain,’ he thought. ‘It tastes good, it tastes like…like…’ he was at a loss for words. ‘Life, that’s what it tastes like. Flavorful and sweet, but gone too fast.’ Jim thought of his mom again. Her life was too short. It wasn’t fair. ‘Stop!’ He told himself. He had to get his mind off her death; he had to remember the positive things. Jim plucked a rose from the rich earth, then stood up and walked back to the bench. As he sat down, the rain began to let up, and a bright red cardinal perched on his shoulder to rest.

‘This is magnificent!’ Jim thought. And it was; it was the highlight of his day. ‘I’m lucky to have such a dazzling creature on me.’ Jim began to wonder, ‘why would it land on me now, why don’t they always do this?’ He pondered his question for a few minutes, until the answer came to him. ‘It knows I’m sad. It’s here to comfort me. Just like a best friend.’

Jim didn’t have a best friend. In fact, he really didn’t have any friends. He was different than the rest of the kids. Whenever he tried to talk to them, they’d laugh at him, calling him names like ‘nature boy,’ and even worse, ‘treehugger.’ Jim didn’t care any more, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered to him.

Presently, the cardinal left its perch on Jim’s shoulder and flew into the weeping willow above. Jim picked up the rose he had taken while sitting amongst the flowers. He brought it to his nose. It smelled marvelous. It reminded him of something he had smelled before, something wonderful. He searched his mind. ‘Mom,’ he thought. ‘She always smelled so elegant.’ Jim thought about his mom for a while, and came to a realization. ‘I’ve been wrong,’ he thought. ‘I shouldn’t try to forget about her death, for it’s through my memories that she can live.’

The wind stroked his hair, parting it to the side. ‘It’s so beautiful out here, just like mom,’ he thought. He looked up to see a mother, probably in her thirties, walking alongside her small child. Jim was once again reminded of his own mother.

“Mom,” Jim whispered, “I miss you.”

Luciana wrapped her hands around the box. The marble felt cool, and strangely smooth against her burning skin. Her breath caught in her throat as she traced the cherry blossom branch that had been painted on top. A smile crept onto her face. She turned around to ask how much it was and her face fell into a bottomless pit.

Green. Her vision was flooded with disgusting wet green. Luciana gripped the box tighter. Spring was in full bloom. The world had applied that vomit tint everywhere. She closed her eyes, happy for the absence of color.

As a child, Luciana fell in love with this season. Every afternoon, after school had ended, she would drag her parents to the park. She would roll in the grass, climb the trees and jump into the muddy puddles. She cringed when she recalled all those wasted hours. At fifteen, she knew better than to trust this bi polar season.

“Luciana…are you ok?

She forced her eyes to open, but was thankful to see her mothers concerned face blocking the garden.

“You’re not feeling sick are you? If you are we can go home and-”

“No…I’m just admiring this box.”

Luciana held out her hands so that her mother could see. Nodding, her mother left to the neighboring yard sale. Turning away from the green, Luciana ventured into the safety of the garage, where grey greeted her eyes. A warm breeze breathed down the back of her neck. The intoxicating smell of new life made her nauseous and she wished the air would freeze. Biting her lip, she looked down at the tables, eyes roaming the glass figurines, the old dolls she would have loved to take home. A sigh escaped her lips, and her hands stopped on a handle.

Looking down, she gasped. The mirror was gold, and a red rose was engraved on the back, it‘s stem engulfing the handle. Cautiously, she looked into it. Luciana’s brown eyes jumped up at her.

The brown against gold was mesmerizing. Trailing the rose with her fingers, she smiled at the reflection, and let her grip on the box loosen slightly. Luciana lifted her eyebrows seductively, and ran her tongue over her lips ‘fascinating‘. This morning, a child had stared back, but Luciana did not see that child. Fear welled up at the pit of her stomach, and she let out a ragged breath. Turning the mirror, she fixed her eyes on the rose. It wasn’t in full bloom--but it wasn’t a bud either. It was beautifully sculpted, and she swore she could smell its sweet scent.

Luciana’s nerves calmed down, and a new feeling emerged. Energy swam through her veins as she raked a hand through her hair, and let it wander onto her neck. Smugly, she lightly kissed the rose.

Turning towards the “cash register” she placed the mirror on the table,

“I wondered who would buy this…belonged to my mother you know…an actress she was…a little vain, but kind nonetheless.”

Luciana merely nodded and turned her gaze towards the sky--shocked that the suns rays didn‘t blind her. Stray branches from neighboring trees waved at her, thanks to the pleasing wind. The leaves looked so refreshing, so free. Her mind was battling her heart--spring meant pain. Everywhere, green reigned supreme. Dying beauty was being replaced by immaturity, uncertainty.

“Here’s your mirror. That’ll be three dollar and were you planning on buying that box miss?”

Luciana felt the marble against her skin. It felt grainy, and a little rough. Looking down, she noticed the petals of the flowers where worn--yet they begged to be taken.

“Yea…yea, I’ll take the box too.”

The woman wrapped it up and handed it to her. Taking the item from her hands, Luciana walked to wards the sidewalk, engrossed by her surroundings. Her skin enveloped the warm rays, the evaporating rain. Her eyes looked to the green leaves, laughing in her face. Daffodils paraded down the path, screaming for attention, which she gladly gave them. Amused, she proceeded back down the driveway to meet up with her mother.

“Ah, I see you bought that box?” Her mother opened the car door for her, and Luciana took one last look at all the green--her mind caved in as her heart threw itself at the color.

“Cherry blossoms are you favorite”

“Were.”

“Oh?” Turning the engine on, her mother lead the car onto the road, “Why the change of heart?”

Luciana smirked. Lowering her window, she watched as grey clouds covered the sun. “Cherry blossoms don’t last forever,” her eyes glazed over, “but a rose never dies.”

Her mother laughed, “And next you’ll tell me that pink isn’t your favorite color?”

“Green I think,” The box fell from her hand, onto the floor, “is far better than pink”

Little Johnny was five years old. Sort of.

Telling Johnny’s true age was like solving a Rubik’s Cube in less than one minute – near impossible.

Johnny certainly looked five. He had fine dusty blond hair and a button nose. His big blue eyes took up half of his face and his head was still just a little too big for his body. And most importantly, Johnny’s parents, Milo and Ester, saw him as their perfect five-year-old boy, so he had been five for many years.

At this moment of his five-year-old life Johnny was playing with Legos in his room while sun streamed through his window that was open just enough to allow a slight breeze to ruffle the curtains and bring in the sweet smell of lilac. The sun almost created a halo effect around Johnny’s young head.

“Johnny! It’s so nice outside, why don’t you go play in the yard?” Ester yelled upstairs to her son.

“But Mom! I’m playing with my Legos!” he yelled back in the most adorable of five-year old voices. Slowly he contemplated his next piece. He was building a special racecar and needed full concentration.

“Johnny! You need sunlight to grow up big and strong!” Ester yelled. The sound of footsteps on the stairs told Johnny he didn’t have much time.

Suddenly, there was no more sun streaming through Johnny’s window. The sky grew dark. The gentle breeze quickened and the sound of leaves thrashing in the wind was heard.

Esther appeared in the doorway and looked at Johnny on the floor with his Legos. The wind was whipping the curtains and tossing wisps of Johnny’s hair.

Ester looked outside, down at Johnny, and walked over to close the window. She then knelt down beside her little boy and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Now Johnny,” she said, “You know that all growing boys need to go play in the sun – “

“But I’m not a growing boy am I!” Johnny yelled back, anger and confusion swimming in his blue eyes.

Outside, rain began to fall.

“Johnny, we’ve talked about this before,” began Ester as she reached her other hand out to hold her son. Johnny pushed her away and stood up, his little hands forming fists, which he placed defiantly on his hips.

“About what mommy?” he cried as the winds and rain strengthened, “I wanna go to school, I wanna play with other boys, I wanna be a big boy!” A flash of lightening split the sky accentuating Johnny’s last word.

“Johnny, big boys listen to Mommy’s and Daddy’s. Big boys control their emotions. You didn’t go play in the sun like Mommy asked – “

Johnny screamed back, his words almost unheard by the crash of thunder that rocked the house, “but I did what you said mommy! I played in the sun, daddy taught me how to swim, he taught me baseball, we even went camping, and I’m still a little boy!”

The wind was thrashing against the windows hard now and the branches of the lilac were smashing against them, threatening to break through.

Ester grabbed her child tight to her chest and held him. He was sobbing so hard his body was shaking. She stroked his hair and knelt down beside him, cradling him like she did so many times before.

“My poor baby” she whispered into his ear as tears began to trickle down her cheeks. “My poor Johnny, we want to see you grow, some day. But until you can control your emotions – “a sob caught in her throat and she looked at the window, noticing that the wind was dying down.

“We’re trying honey, we really are. I know you’re a good boy, you’re the bestest little boy any mommy or daddy could ever want!” She turned Johnny’s tear-stained eyes up to hers. “If you promise to try really hard,” she continued, “we’ll think about leaving you out of hibernation a little longer this year. Really honey, we’re only doing this because we love you!” sighed an exasperated Ester.

Johnny threw his little arms around his mother and buried his face in her dress. The wind and rain had totally stopped now. Still crying, Johnny whimpered, “I love you too mommy, I love you and daddy so much! I’ll try really hard this time, I will. I’ll show you I can be a big boy!”

Johnny and Ester held each other tightly as the sun came out from behind the clouds and streamed through the window once more. It landed on the pair as they held each other, still slightly sobbing.

Outside a young couple walked by. “Boy, this is some pretty crazy weather we’re having here,” joked the man to his girlfriend.

“Ah, it’s just spring” she replied.