It’s been a year and eleven days since you had visited me. The colors of autumn have changed into cold winter white. The white I wore as a reminiscence of what we had. spring has been delayed this year but when it came it brought an old afterthought and a pungent smell.
Something rotten had been buried in the soil. The old house where we lived has turned into a crematorium of memories. It gave away an effervescence of afterthought that no matter how close December is to February, February will always be far away from December.
You and I, born in those months, were just like them- February & December. Both seem to meet at the edges but they are far off the center. Sometimes spring is far behind the winter. Not all winter give into spring some come down heavily as the monsoon rain.
Ours was that monsoon.
A forever of 2 months. A forever of the monsoon season.
In between spring and summer waited to witness this downpour. The monsoon of forever which came every year to soften the earth. Only to leave behind a petrichor effect that haunts the rest of the year.
Ours was that haunting. The haunting that still finds resonance in the crematorium – our home, the place where we lived for an hour. That same place is someone else’s dwelling now. Someone calls it home now. “Home” the word we created and etched in the walls.
While you left for your house I left mine. The only one I had. We left. Each one separately but simultaneously. We left only to return to the crematorium of memories. The walls of it still whisper of us much to the dismay of the owners. The other day, the children got scolded for a stained wall. No one knew it wasn’t their fault. It was there all the while. Waiting to be discovered. Eager to tell their story. The story of “How Winter Met Spring”. Perhaps it was meant for them- The House Of Seasons.
The House Of Seasons is for the walled.