MEGAN PRICE: Winter songs and summer memories

Like chatter in a language I couldn’t understand, the rain beat down on the roof. The water washed away the day, filling the air with the fresh scent of soil. If it weren’t for the thunder, it would be peaceful. Perhaps it still was. The night was dark and warm and heavy droplets trailed down the windows. It was the last of summer.

The leaves were still green and the air was still wet, but I knew it would be over soon. Thunder growled above me, keeping me from sleep. I was awake, though I felt I shouldn’t be. One never sees the sun breach the horizon or the clouds change colour. They wait until your back is turned or your eyes are closed, but mine were open. I looked up at the darkness of the ceiling and listened to summer melt away with each of the raindrops. There was no wind, no howl against the house or creak of the trees. The world stood silent and bore witness to something ancient.

The wind would come with colourful leaves and new little creatures. The blue birds would fly away and the robins would take their place. I liked robins, their red chests like embers on the snowy trees. Lightning flashed, lighting the dark sky in cracks outside my windows. I would miss the rain, I would miss the blue birds and warm winds. But I wouldn’t miss the thunder. I wouldn’t miss the wildfires or the heat that tried to melt me. Summer would be gone but something just as grand would take its place. The nights would grow longer and the days shorter. Fur would get thicker and cold blooded creatures would find a home to keep them warm. We would light fires and hold cups of warm tea closer to our chests. The games would change and the meals would get bigger.

As I lay in my bed and thought of what was to come, the steady white noise of the rainfall slowly quietened, leaving silent aftermath. Drips from the branches and gutters were like footsteps on the wet ground. I knew when I woke tomorrow, summer would be gone. The wind might still be warm and the sun might still beat down, even the rain and thunder might return, but I knew it was gone. I turned over in my bed, the sheets cool against my skin, and went to sleep. I had dreams of winter songs and summer memories, of something old and something new. The smells of summer still hung in the air, but the promise of autumn and winter whirled alongside it.

* Megan Price is a self-published writer who lives in Trafalgar on the KZN South Coast. She has written numerous flash fiction stories, one of which won The Creative Writing Ink Short Story Competition in 2022. She has also written and self-published a number of longer short stories and has sold copies all over the world.

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