was a spectacle. It was as if the trees were throwing a party before dying. She went to an apple orchard and drank hot cider, watching a child drop a donut in the mud. The world felt cozy, wrapped in flannel and the scent of cinnamon. November stripped it all away. The wind returned, rattling the bare branches. The sky turned back to that familiar, steely grey. It was a melancholy month, a time of saying goodbye to the light.
She grabbed her coat. She didn’t run from it. seasons in usa months
She stepped outside into the silent, glittering hush of , one year later. The air still bit her cheeks, but now, she bit back. She smiled. She finally understood that in America, you don't survive the seasons. was a spectacle
was a liar. One day, the sun would appear, the icicles would drip, and she’d think, Ah, spring . She’d wear a light jacket. The next day, a polar wind would scream down from Canada, dumping six more inches of snow. March, she decided, had a personality disorder. The world felt cozy, wrapped in flannel and