The Four Seasons

Winter

I’ve never been fond of winter. The sky is dull and the sounds are muffled by the snow that buries my roots. I am cold. My protection against the wind blew away in fall, leaving me exposed to the harsh pellets of hail and ice-laden winds. The only warmth I receive this time of year comes from the little family of raccoons that have burrowed by my roots; I can feel their heated fur against my bark as they sleep the day away. Farther up the tree is another family: squirrels, who have made a nest in my trunk. They spend all morning scuttering about collecting the nuts they've stashed, and at night once the raccoons have gone, they sleep, their gentle breaths lulling me into a slumber-like reverie.

Every so often, the December storms grow so dreadful that I lose a limb or two, but the amiable man in uniform always cleans me up.

I’m sorry, I tell him, for making a mess. But I don’t think he understands.

My best friend, Mémé, never visits me in the winter. She used to, when she was younger, but she stopped several years ago. She told me, that spring, that she didn’t like the cold. It wasn’t good for her old bones, she said, and I can’t say I disagree with her.

But you are so young! My parents will say.

But you are so old! My children will say.

I guess it depends on your perspective.

Spring

Spring has to be my favourite season: it's when all my leaves come back, and everyone likes to tell me how elegant I’ve become, with the little white blossoms blooming at every finger-tip.

All my friends come back to visit me in the spring, and it's then that I get to meet all their babies!

Today is a very merry day; I have a new baby, a little seedling growing beside me. No more than a small shoot in the grass, but I can’t resist weeping with joy.

Mémé! I exclaim in a voice only those listening for can hear. It’s her first visit this season.

She smiles at me. Mémé isn’t much of a talker, but has always been a marvellous listener, ever since she started visiting me as a small child. I don’t talk much either, but when you’ve been friends as long as we have, you don’t always need words to communicate.

She has always left different sorts of nuts, seeds, and berries scattered by my roots, for the squirrels to feast upon and the raccoons to scavenge up. Sometimes she’d stop by to say hello and give food to the creatures before having to leave. Other times she’d just sit against my trunk for hours not talking at all. I adore her company either way. It sometimes gets terribly lonely to be a tree, living as long as we do. But I can’t imagine how my parents feel, being nearly 300 years old.

My baby! I exclaimed, I couldn’t help being excited to show Mémé - the woman I’ve watched grow up for the past 82 years, and who introduced me to her own children - one of my own babies.

She smiled, excited by my news.

She came back the next day with a young friend.

“My grandbaby!” She introduced Lulu, the girl was the same age as Mémé when she started visiting me.

Today, after Mémé left, just as the sun began to grow lazy, a young love showed up, thirteen years at most, both shy and blushing.

Hello! I exclaim, when they sit at the base of my trunk. They don’t respond, just smile at each other, blushing a more vibrant red when he takes her hand.

I sighed into the breeze. Maybe they can’t hear me, but the company is pleasant regardless.

They don’t stay long, only until the sky grows dark, but as they leave he gives her a kiss and they both turn the colour of wild strawberries.

The days in spring grow longer. Mémé visits all the days that the sky doesn’t cry, and the couple also returns twice more throughout the spring as well.

Summer

This Summer is sweltering. I’ve never felt so hot and dry in the 182 years of my life. My bark curls and flakes, and my leaves become wrinkled and lose their springtime glow. Mémé still comes around nearly every day to give me a bucket of water; though it isn’t enough for me to return to my springtime glory, it does relieve my parchedness temporarily.

She always gives me water in the Summer; it’s not a necessity as I’ve lived without it for many years, but it’s a satisfying refreshment nonetheless.

The rare breeze blows by so lightly, it’s like the ghost of a feather and I can’t help but let my laughter blow away with the gust.

Summer has always been a tumultuous season, and this year is no different; mice scurry about the base of my trunk, looking tired and dehydrated. I direct them to the closest water source and they scurry off. A woodpecker shows up to help clean out my bark. It tickles a little, but it’s nice not to have so many bugs around; the woodpecker promises to come back. Mrs. Doe wanders past with her two fawns, hello she says, as her children frolic by, trimming the grass from around my trunk. They are nearly mature enough to start a life on their own.

I can tell Mrs. Doe feels melancholy, but she doesn’t mention it.

They don’t stay long before something startles them back into the woods.

The couple returns, now far older and less pink than their first outing in spring all those years back.

Autumn

Mémé died today, I can feel it. She smiles at me as her soul is carried away by the breeze. I weep and weep and weep. The sky weeps for her, the animals she fed weep for her, even the blades of grass bow their heads in mourning. Water droplets roll off the few rouge-turned leaves of my baby: even they cry for her.

Ordinarily, Autumn would be my second-favourite season: the flaming of my leaves, the golden of the sun, the perfect balance between hot and cold, rain and shine. But this year Autumn has been grimmer than most.

The family of squirrels who have been nesting in my trunk have to move: without Mémé around to feed them, they aren’t going to have enough food for the winter months. They wish me all the best and vow they will visit; I know it’s an empty promise. I weep for the departure of my friends.

The couple who so often frequents me arrives, but neither are smiling nor laughing, and not a single kiss is exchanged. Their tense hushed voices soon give way to upset shouting; the boy eventually storms off.

The girl sits down at my trunk and I weep for her and with her.

After being alive for more than a century, I know better than most, how grievous some seasons can be. I also know it’s not something that lasts forever.

Things haven’t been all bad this Autumn. I’ve gained some new friends: they’re a family of barn owls who have taken up residency in the squirrels’ old home. They are voluble, more so than any other owls I’ve encountered, though I admit that in my many years of living, there have not been many. I like hearing this new family of owls chatter. They are very thoughtful and listen when I talk as well.

Lulu, Mémé’s granddaughter, visits but once near the end of Autumn. She comes and sits with me just to cry.

It gets better with time, naught but a whisper in the wind. Throughout my life, I have witnessed so many of my friends taken by the hands of time. Though I remember them all, and still miss every one, the excruciating pain I once felt at their passing has long since faded. Save for Mémé; the departure of my good friend is still a fresh wound.

This Autumn has been sapping, but with the help of my new friends Lulu and the barn owls, I know things can only improve.