When she showed up at my house, the evidence that I hadn’t been alone was everywhere. Old Man Winter had left his snow all over the lawn. (Believe me, the number of times I’ve asked him to clean up after himself . . . it does no good. I wind up shoveling up his mess myself, only to have him dump more right after I’ve cleaned up.) Stuff that I’ve bought just for him—shovels, a roof rake, a generator—there was just too much evidence around the house for Spring to ignore. She knew I’d been seeing another season, and she was mad.
“How could you do this to me?” she stormed, trampling the daffodils. Great, I thought. Now they’ll never come up.
“Sweetheart. I’ve been praying for you to come back to me for months. You have to believe me. This thing with Winter . . . it means nothing. I didn’t even want it to happen.”
This was absolutely true. It’s not like I had the least bit of interest in having Winter move in. I would’ve been perfectly happy to have Autumn stay around until Spring decided to show up. But I woke up one morning and Autumn was just . . . gone. Winter, probably sensing my vulnerability, swooped in like a white knight, showering me with gifts, like a pretty dusting of sparkling frost in December, and even giving me a white Christmas. I shouldn’t have let the beauty fool me. Beneath the stardust veneer, Winter can be cruel and cold. So, so cold.
I was desperate. I started to beg. “I tell you, I’ve been praying for you to come back to me! Look! I even cleaned for you!” (It was true. I’d scrubbed the walls last week in the hopes that it would convince Spring that I really was committed to having her back in my life.) “See what I bought for you?” I said, pointing to the seed packets on the kitchen table. “I’ve been waiting for you. I thought we could plant them together.”
Spring sniffed. She looked around again. “At least you used protection,” she mumbled, looking at the stack of gloves, hats, and scarves that were piled up by the front door.
“That’s right, I did!” I said. I thought I was winning her over. I saw a glimmer of hope, like a timid crocus blossoming in the snow. But Spring can be a fickle, fickle woman.
“Maybe,” she said, teasing me with her warm breath, “maybe . . . I’ll come back in April.”
And with that, she was gone. Winter was still freeloading in my back yard, driving my heating bill up, and generally making my life miserable. I was broken-hearted. But a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do.
“Come on,” I said to Winter, pulling on my gloves. “I may not like you much, but you sure do seem to like me, seeing as you won’t leave me alone.”
I’m not proud. And I do miss Spring. But at least Winter, with all of his chilly attitude, brings me a shamrock shake once in a while.