I plummeted from the heavens. A frozen, crystal bullet shot out of nowhere and swung me from the heavy clouds. Defeated, I crawled onto a golden, brittle autumn leaf. The piercing air dried my yellow, black fuzz. Filled with dreary grey cotton balls, the air above me commenced its prewinter melody. It whistled a lament of Earth's creatures slowing down and creeping to a three-month halt.
The world remained colorless, and death reigned everywhere outside the giants' candlelit homes. That place was not my home. The icy November made the sunshiny days of summer with its flowers and busy-bee energy an impossible paradise. When shivery December arrived, the onset of winter would extinguish all hope.
If summer still existed, I could fly to it. Buzzing around that welcoming place, I viewed the vividness and tasted the sweetness of a ruby poppy or proud sunflower. An August breeze drew out my last breath. I did not need summertime; a simple memory of it would have sufficed. In the stark wasteland of an urban neighborhood on the brink of winter, sparking that memory was the problem. The yellow fuzz of my back and glint of my wings would soon die. The only bit of life left there, gone.
That world held nothing for me. No honey to be made of those dead leaves and imaginary blossoms. I sat in the silence. My six legs and tiny heart grew frailer with every second. Then, I glanced the sun. The star cracked the solemn sky in half and smiled upon me. It was a lip smack of iced tea and sugar cubes. Breathing the pin-pricking November air, I laid in the everlasting sleepiness of my body, but the sun shined. My breath slowed. The air carried a hint of flowers, maybe poppies, sunflowers. I inhaled. The delicate breeze of August under my shimmering wings. I exhaled. The sky a vibrant sapphire, the leaves green, the world grinning. Somewhere I stopped sensing all the chill and spying all the silver. It was summer again.
Paige Cox